


How to Ruin Yourself

by Apple_Fairy



Category: Twisted-Wonderland (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, During Canon, M/M, POV Second Person, updates weekly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:00:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 88,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27550411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apple_Fairy/pseuds/Apple_Fairy
Summary: Your name is Ruggie Bucchi. You are a no-good, lowdown hyena from the slums of the Afterglow Savannah. You are quick-witted, prideful, a terror, and a young boy just trying to survive the world. You bend your morals where you see fit, break the world to ensure your survival. You do not suffer from guilt, but only the idea that the world owes you overdue payment, and that you had a right to live just as anyone else does. You laugh where you can. You don't show anyone your tears.His name is Leona Kingscholar. In the beginning all he had been was a prince from the royal family, a name whispered in the markets, a faceless thing for you to hate during your hungry nights.It all begins when you finally meet him at Night Raven College.This is how you ruin yourself.
Relationships: Leona Kingscholar/Ruggie Bucchi, Ruggie Bucchi/Leona Kingscholar
Comments: 106
Kudos: 222





	1. Guys Like You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! This is a fic that I intended only as a one-shot but has taken a life of its own lol. I've really fallen in love with Ruggie's character, so I began writing this piece. It's a second person POV told from Ruggie's perspective, from when he first begins attending Night Raven College and detailing his relationship with Leona all up until chapter 3. Think of it as canon, but if Leona and Ruggie were in a relationship lol. I've done a few embellishments here and there on Ruggie's upbringing and past, but nothing that goes against canon. I've done my best to keep it accurate as possible. I hope you can enjoy it!

Your name is Ruggie Bucchi and when you first hear of him it is years before you even meet him. 

It’s not as if you were not aware of him before. You were aware of him much like you had to know every other unequal thing you were born into. You knew of him like you know the looks you get in the market, like the greedy grin of the tax collector, like the insidious way ‘hyena’ could be said like it was an accusation, a crime. You knew of him and the royal family with equal resignation and hatred, a convenient, faceless thing to blame when the world is unfair and you needed something solid to hate when you knew for a fact the real culprit was intangible and the very base of animal instinct. You hated him and the rest of the royals because they were seemingly blind to your hungry nights and the even hungrier people you knew. You hated him because he was happy and you are miserable.

You first hear about him before the wedding.

You are detached from these things insofar as you were worried more about how your grandmother’s hands were getting shaky and wondering if root vegetables were enough to dye water with some kind of taste to make something resembling a stew. But at the market it comes up with the salesman. He likes to chatter like this, a well-intentioned gossip but a gossip nonetheless. You don’t mind so much. You are starting to like the man and his seven children and his kindly wife. He’s rare in that he doesn’t watch your hands just because of your species. You cannot say that about a lot of the sellers in the market. It makes it easier to steal from him; it also gives you a good excuse to buy up all the bruised produce he can’t manage to sell. You think this makes it equal.

“Did you hear? King Farena has chosen a bride!”

You blink. You are weighing an apple that is more brown than red in your hand. You laugh.

(You like your laugh. So many people have told you it's disgusting that you’ve started to flaunt it like a status symbol.)

“Took him long enough! Think they’ll throw a party in the square?”

That’s all you really care about. You like festivals and parties because everyone is too distracted to watch their pockets during them. You like the excuse to celebrate, too. Free food and free money in one. It’s perfect.

You chatter some more, making easy conversation, and pocket the apple when his back is turned. There’s a lot of talk about politics, allied nations, the new Queen. He mentions how this means there might be a new prince in the future. How wonderful would that be? Farena is such a good king, and doesn’t he deserve a happy family?

(You think that’s bullshit. If he was so good then why have you been using the same bones in your broth for the past week?)

Then the grocer pauses as you pass him the coins. He looks this way and that, watching for other people. Your stomach drops, thinking he will confront you about the apple. Instead he leans forward a bit, voice low, ears twitching.

“Just between you and me, I think it would be good if we had a new prince in line for the crown. Just imagine if something happened to King Farena if we didn’t?”

You don’t get it. You tell him as much.

“Well...It would be bad if Prince Leona had become king, don’t you think?” He leans back, shaking his head in a good-natured, superstitious manner, “Heard he’s a bad sort. Rude. This kingdom would turn to sand in his hands.”

You stare for a moment. Sand. You hold back the urge to say look around you. How would that be any different from here? From now? You don’t know anything about this Prince Leona or these dumb politics, other than it’s just a nice distraction from where you are now. As far as you knew, all those problems may as well be on another planet.

The grocer notes your silence. He tells you that you didn’t hear that from him. A tense air sits between you two, and suddenly he is not so kindly and not so caring. But you understand what this is, know what it means when you live here; you lack a safety net, an understanding. You laugh. You tell him your lips are sealed. You change the subject, and ask about his family. It works, and he brightens. All threats dispelled, all backstabbing threats disappear, and you both let it go. The charade is up again; you are simply neighbors, laughing at your lot in life together and making friends where you lack economic comfort.

Before you leave, he calls your name, and slips you a mango. It is probably a bribe, but you’re never one to look a gift horse in the mouth. You eat half of it on the way home, and give the rest to your grandmother back home. On your walk back, the juice runs sticky and sweet down your wrist and you relish its taste. It’s hot today, just like it always is in the savannah. You conclude that mangoes are best enjoyed under sunshine, in heavy air, almost suffocating. It makes you think of drowning in a way. Struggling to breath, the sun holding you down, and the mango is like an oasis. An escape and a distraction. It’s both painful and relief, and for that the fruit tastes sweeter.

You wonder if the royal family gets to eat like this whenever they want. Lucky bastards. You have no sympathy for a prince who was whispered about in marketplaces, decried by strangers on the basis of rumors. You figure it will be the same for you no matter who sits on the throne. And most importantly, you have no love for people who only have to worry about how they are seen, rather than how they will survive.

That evening, you get the bright idea to plant the mango pit in your backyard. You and your grandmother do your best to see it grow.

In five years, still nothing has sprouted.

* * *

You are both surprised when the letter comes in the mail. It severely stands out amongst the bills and letters. It’s a sleek, black envelope with an acutely grand seal. No one knows how Night Raven College chooses it’s students. It is just one of those twists of fate, a mysterious lottery, and you win the jackpot. Your grandmother is near to tears and you both celebrate that night with meat ( _real_ meat), and your favorite dessert. She also takes the time to sit you down and speak to you seriously. She’s heard things about Night Raven College. She tells you all the things she’s told you before. Be careful. Be on guard. Be aggressive to weaker people challenging you, and duck your head when the stronger do. It would break your heart, but you know her’s is more broken at this point. She must have told the same thing to your mother and father a long time ago. She knows it won’t always work, but she tries. Trying to caution children in a world that had no love for them, trying to protect them from a world that saw no reason to let them live. She has survived this long, and you already know she has seen many who never got that privilege. She doesn’t want you added to them.

She tells you this is a good opportunity. She tells you not to waste this.

You promise.

(You dream about your parents that night, wonder what they would have said if you had the chance to tell them you got accepted to a prestigious college.)

(It’s a pointless thing to think. You shake yourself of the dream in the morning.)

You keep it a secret from the neighbors. It’s a big spectacle when the carriage comes. It is almost otherworldly, bearing a heavy presence, black and stunning amongst the slums. When you leave you hug your grandmother extra tight. You know it will be a long, long time until you get to see her again. You vaguely feel as if you are leaving a part of yourself behind. She smells like cooking herbs and hot summer. She smells like home, but you don’t cry. You don’t even entertain the notion of crying. She did not raise you to show emotion so openly like that.

When you draw back, she smiles up at you warmly, gripping your arms like she doesn’t want to let go. She tells you that you have grown so much.

She orders you to give them hell.

You laugh.

The carriage is comfy, and yet so intimidatingly ornate inside. You do not look back as it draws away in horse hooves and creaking wheels. You know she would not want you to. The more distance you make between you and your home, the less you feel like yourself. Like a tenuous string being pulled taut, your childhood fading into the background. Something feels like it snaps, but you don’t cry.

Instead, your head is filled with nothing but the thought of food.

They better feed you when you get there.

* * *

Night Raven College, you quickly find, is full of bastards and cutthroats and the dumbest idiots you have ever met.

You are sorted into Savanaclaw. You have to sit through a long and boring lecture about the ‘Great Seven’ and the ‘school’s ideals’, and other bullshit you don’t care enough to remember. The ceremonial robe is nice, however. You are instead examining the gold embroidery, it’s beautiful twists and twirls, and wonder vaguely if you can pawn it or if they’ll force you to buy a new one if you did. You’d hate to think how much this thing costs.

You meet him, briefly, after the entrance ceremony. At the time, all you think about him is that he’s obviously top dog, he has an intimidating presence, and ‘dorm leader’ is just code for ‘guy who gets the privilege to boss you around’. He looks familiar, but you can’t place it yet. He obviously did not care to greet any of you newcomers, but he’s better at speeches then he gives himself credit for. It’s enough to leave the students next to you shaking. 

At this point, you are considering two options: stay the hell out of his way like your grandmother would say, or ally yourself to him to ensure your survival in the next four years. It is admittedly ambitious of you, but you are an expert at survival. Still, it was a lot to plan in one night, so after the introductions, you instead decided to sleep on it. The beds in the dorm are the nicest thing you have known, better than sharing a blanket on the floor with family.

You meet him, face to face, one on one, finally, after you get into a fight.

Savanaclaw is full of real brawny types, big guys with muscles the size of your fist. You cannot help but stand out next to them. It’s the malnourished upbringing that made you so small, not that you ever sweat things like that anyway. You guess they are just establishing the hierarchy when they come after you. Putting things in place, like a pack of animals near kill. You are used to things like this. (This is not the first time someone has called you a ‘dirty hyena’ or asked you if you had money to spare.) You knock things back into place soon enough. You ask them to _Laugh with Me_ and get them to walk themselves like a herd of sheep into one of the campus’ fountains. Your laughter rings loud and sadistic in the air, as they splash around like a bunch of hippos. A teacher catches you. A lot of trouble ensues, and the dorm leader is dragged in. Even up close, he’s still tall and exudes a threatening aura that practically demands attention in the room. He’s not half bad looking.

(You would rather die than admit you thought that about him in the beginning.)

He makes a lot of complaints about how he has to deal with things like this, and what a hassle it was. He throws blame on both parties equally for causing trouble and getting him involved. You think he’s a real piece of work, and knew he was more irritated about having to take responsibility than about any case that should be made. You’re rethinking your plan from last night. It was beginning to look like it would be more trouble than it was worth to work for this guy.

Then he stares at you. Involuntarily, you freeze up. You cannot help but feel some fear beat in your chest, prey spotted by a predator. It was enough to lay low, so it was not good news to stand out to him. You try to make yourself small.

“You,” he singles you out, “Where’s your uniform?”

Without thinking, you tug on the edge of your shirt, in an ashamed manner. You raise your chin, and push down any weakness you feel surging in you. You smirk at him.

“Can’t afford it.” You tell him, as if you were bragging. You refused to feel humiliation at this confession. You shrug. “‘S that a problem, dorm leader?”

You say that last part in a mocking tone. You are practically daring him to say something about this, to take a jab. You have gotten this far on your wits alone, and knew that pride takes you leagues further then strength ever will. You never have to prove yourself if you convince people you can, if you ever felt like it. To your disappointment, he does not take the bait. Instead he seems to size you up again, a brief sweep of his eyes, and then looks away.

“Come to my room after classes.” He orders, and won’t elaborate.

You wonder if he’s going to kick your ass. You’d like to see him try. You’re not strong by any stretch of the imagination, but you're crafty when it counts. Well, not like you would want to come to blows anyway. (Not like you’d want to be _dorm leader_ anyway, it sounded like a hassle.) Rather if you could talk your way out of it, coming out smelling like roses, you wouldn’t hate the benefits that would come of it. 

His face, that scar, is still at the forefront of your mind and you know why. It’s nothing romantic; rather you knew him. You _must_ know him. He looked so damn familiar but you can’t place your finger on it. It itches at you the entire day, and it finally hits you in magical history.

You’re so _stupid._

_Kingscholar._

Shit. _Shit._

You are amazing. You are amazing because you have not only managed to catch the dorm leader’s attention your first week, but also the fucking _prince of the Afterglow Savannah._

What a small world. What a small world that loved to throw you around and watch your squirm.

You wonder what would happen if you just did not go. Would he hunt you down? Thinking about it, it might actually be more humiliating if he kicked your ass in the common’s room or something. You weigh your options and your escape until the time you finally have to go. Finding no alternative, you decide to take your medicine. Well, you think, worse comes to worse you at least have a good story to tell when you get home.

 _Got my teeth kicked in by one of the Kingscholar princes once. What about_ you?

However, when you get there you realize there was nothing to be scared of. Rapidly, he quells your fears from only the very basis of how he acts with you. First, you have to knock at least six times to get any answer. When he finally answers, disheveled, his hair is wild and pretty, his eyes narrowed and half-lidded. You realize he was probably asleep. (In the afternoon? Guess what they say about lions is true?) At first he asks what the hell you want. Irritation starts to burn here. You remind him you asked for me? He says he doesn’t remember. You want to kick him. You remind him about the fountain? The uniform.

 _Oh._ Then he remembers, but doesn’t look ashamed that he forgot. You call him a _scatterbrain_ in your head, you call him an _asshole_ for wasting your time like this. Your fear has been replaced with irritation. Are all royals like this? Think the world’s gotta wait on them hand and foot?

He beckons you in, with a nod of his head. Calling him a _spoiled brat_ , you follow nonetheless.

He throws it at you, and scrambling, you catch it. It’s black, a pile of clothes with nice weight. You reach in and pull something up from its mass, and it takes you a moment to register what it is. A black blazer, the ones that fill Night Raven College’s hallways. You blink. You bring it down, and look at him puzzled.

“Take it.”

His words stay in the air, final. You wait for him to elaborate, but he’s always been a man of little words, and so you are left scrambling to catch an explanation too.

You feel stupid for it later but you ask him first where he got this. He sneers at you, confirming that you do indeed sound stupid asking this. He tells you it’s his old uniform. Doesn’t fit him anymore. Take it.

For a brief moment, you eye his biceps and figure you know what he means. Still. You ask what’s the catch. Do I owe you? How much do I gotta pay?

He smiles at this. You don’t know why, but he seems to like that you ask these things. He shrugs.

“I don’t want anyone to embarrass this dorm. The least you can do is wear the uniform.”

Ohhh. Yeah, you figured that’s what this was.

It reminds you briefly, your status in this world, the pain your existence must be for others. That the very idea that you stain this world with your poverty, that you are proof that nothing is perfect. A faux pas in the conversation of the world, inconvenient and clearly unwelcome.

Now, this is not to say that you have scoffed at free handouts before. You're not an _idiot_. A free meal, while never _actually_ free, still fills the belly as much as food rightly earned would. You have met plenty of proud types in your neighborhood, upright old men who die by their upright old morals. You're not so stupid as to place something invisible and intangible like pride over your need for survival. You are someone who gladly compromises his morals for the chance to get the wealthy to empty their pockets out of their foolish ideas of charity.

But. This is a very, very different situation.

"I know who you are."

It's out of your mouth before you can think twice. It's heavier than you intend it, taking space in a room where you should probably cower. If your grandmother were here she would have smacked the back of your head by now and made you apologize.

He seems nonplussed. He cocks an eyebrow.

"Oh?"

"Leona Kingscholar." You continue despite yourself, "From the royal family of the Afterglow Savannah."

He doesn't even blink. Instead he regards this passively, like he's used to this happening all the time. It irritates you, like he's practically untouchable, on a throne you can't reach.

"Huh. Took you long enough." Instead he says, and crosses his arms, tilting his head to the side, "Guys like you usually get it the first day."

"'Guys like me'?"

His eyes flick to your ears, but he looks back down quickly enough. Something burns hotter. Your question sounded more offended then you meant, and you know he'll probably give you some fake answer like 'someone from the Afterglow Savannah'. But his eyes said everything and that's why you decide everything.

"Look," He sighs, looking past you to the door, "Don't get any wrong ideas. I'm not trying to grant you a favor here. I just can't stand watching you walk around like tha-"

"I don't want it."

Before he can say anything, his lightning quick reflexes kick in first. It's sort of amazing, how quickly he reacts to you throwing the clothes back, catching them like he was some trained dog. He looks at you wide-eyed, subtly surprised. You are glaring at him, roiling with some angry laugh that wanted to be heard. You smirk, instead.

" _Sorry_." You say, in fake humility, "You'll have to excuse me, but I don't need your charity."

He narrows his eyes. Clearly not the first time he's dealt with some mouthy first year either.

"Didn't I just tell you this wasn't a favor?"

"Oh, please." You scoff, "You think you can just throw your table scraps at me and expect me to thank you?"

" _Hey-"_

You wave him off, quick, heart pounding in your chest. You turn on your heel, spurred on with bravado and fear. 

"Sorry, Mr. Dorm Leader," You tell him in farewell, "Guess you'll just have to deal with seeing me everyday!"

You half expected him to drag you back and beat the ever living shit, which is why you practically sprint out of there. Thankfully, he doesn't follow you down the hallways. Your heart is beating fast and in frenzy, out of the sheer adrenaline of calling him out. You may have just signed your death warrant just now. Making enemies with the _dorm leader_ in your first year? Making enemies with a dorm leader that was also _a fucking prince?_ You want to feel regret but it doesn't come. Instead you feel angry at him more than anything. Where does he get off? You know exactly why he was looking at your ears, you know exactly why he was singling you out. It sets you aflame. It gets you thinking.

Downside: you are about to insure your next four years here are going to be a living hell.

Brightside: You now know there is one free uniform in this place, and that you have a golden chance at revenge.

* * *

It's actually not hard at all to case his room, he's barely cognizant of his surroundings as is. Like, damn, at least have some sense of self-awareness, some idea of safety.

As a result, it was also easy enough to come in. Doesn't even lock the damn door. Sure as _hell_ doesn't even clean the room either.

By the end of the week the uniform is safe in your own closet.

You have to roll up the sleeves, but when you see yourself in the mirror you smile.

Victory is sweet.

* * *

He doesn't take long to confront you. He is looking for you, like he already knows. The look on his face as he sees you wearing it is priceless, but your victory is cut short as he drags you off by the collar. The bastard's strong, and you’re like a stubborn dog who won't go on a walk.

He slams you against a wall, behind the gym, and slams a hand over your head, keeping you caged. You muster up all your nerve to just glare up at him, even though your knees are shaking, ready to give out. For a long time he doesn't say anything, letting the silence torture you. He just looks down at you, hard, his intimidation doing all the talking. You don't give into the scheme. You let that silence stretch long between you two, refusing to chicken out.

You keep telling yourself he can't prove anything. That more than anything this will be a good story. And hell, who knows, if you play your cards right, you can even play a black eye off as a mark of pride in this school.

In the time to come you will find Leona is somehow both incredibly easy to predict, and also as volatile as a poorly mixed potion. He has his set ways and likes, making it no mystery about the things he dislikes and what he wants. However he likes to surprise you too, like a predator that relished that moment of surprise, the killing strike. In the coming years you will come to one conclusion: it's not that he's inconsistent. Rather, Leona liked to play by his own set of rules, having the world bend to his whims, breaking them if necessary.

This is mentioned, because reflecting on this moment, you realize it's the first moment he catches you off guard. 

"What's your name?" He finally asks you, voice chilling. You are shaking, but don't let your voice follow suit.

"Ruggie."

He flicks an ear, like in recognition.

And then he smiles, slick and sweet, all fangs and no sympathy.

"Ruggie," He repeats it, amused, "work for me."

" _Huh?"_

* * *

You don't know how, but you somehow end up becoming the dorm leader's errand boy.

It's sort of insulting, to be honest, in a lot of ways. One, he will not define for you what 'working for him' means. When questioned he shrugs you off with the useless phrase of 'it's what it sounds like', and so you're left just waiting for him to need you and following when told. It should be stated that you don't really appreciate being bossed around, but you're also not stupid enough to tell him off. You come to find that it's not hard work though. You're amused to find that he's just a useless rich kid who's never had to do his own chores before. Not the worst part time job you've had. Not the easiest either, but something like pity and superiority kicks in every time he tells you do this or that for him. You do not hesitate to either whine or tease him, and it's surprising but nice to find he's not so sensitive as to take any of this to heart.

(This could just be you talking, but you think he  _ likes  _ your banter anyway. But you're just guessing at this. Maybe he just can't be bothered to feel threatened by you.)

You will admit, it's not too bad a set up. Sure, being a nanny to a lazy bastard who isn't paying you isn't exactly ideal, but the street cred that comes with it is. There is an invisible hierarchy taking place at Savanaclaw and it reminds you of home. There is social status, a ladder everyone wanted to climb and fight over, and there at the top, the king who made sure the order was kept and no one challenged him. You've known your place in the world since you were born, and you are not at all surprised to find it exists in school too. So it's nice to get respect just because you just so happen to do the dorm leader's laundry and buy his lunch. 

You are starting to think maybe this is your pay. No one is giving you trouble. They stay out of your way. And all you gotta do for him is all the things he can't be bothered with. What did they call that again? You have vague memories of school, the beat-up textbooks your whole class had to share. 'Mutual beneficial relationship'? Something like that. Whatever. You've always had a strong work ethic and enough energy to get you through the day, and this guy, who gets to have more than you could ever dream of, has deigned to give you his attention. In the end, maybe it all evened out.

But. That was the other thing that bothered you.

"Why me?"

He opens his eyes, and stares at you sleepily. You have been at this for a few weeks now, settled into unspoken but understood agreement. He is napping (as always, almost seemed to be his hobby at this point) and you have been graciously given the task of washing the windows. (It's so damn sandy in Savanaclaw you practically have to do this weekly.) You peek from your perch on his balcony, balancing on the railing. It's a long drop, but it's not like you haven't done this before. 

"You're asking that  _ now _ ?" He responds, once he gets a hang of what you were asking. You make a face at him.

"You never told me. Why didn't you kick my ass that day?" You tug at the oversized blazer in example, "Am I working to pay this off? Is that what this is?"

"What do I look like; that octopus bastard?" Leona scoffs. You've only been here a few months but you know who he's referring to. You got lay of the land pretty quickly. He shifts in bed, laying on his back, hands behind his head. He looks comfy there, and you're almost envious. 

"I'm just saying," You continue, and stretch your arm as far as it will go to wipe at the glass. "It doesn't make sense. What's your aim?"

"'My aim?' So now you think I'm up to no good?"

"Clearly." You accuse, stretching out a leg to keep your center of balance. You're only one foot on the perch now, "You know I'm a hyena. We're hard workers and we're poor; I see guys like you all the time in the slums."

"Guys like me?"

"Offering work to people who can't refuse."

He stays quiet. To be honest, the theory has been baking in your mind ever since he asked. You didn't want to get kicked out of school, what was a good opportunity, on the whims of a bored prince. If you had to sign your soul away for some respect, you at least wanted to read the fine print. 

You're still cleaning as you hear the bed shift, soft foot pads making their way toward you. You hated how he walked like that, like stalking some weak thing. You don't expect him to grab your ankle though, and you yelp as he pulls you back. You scramble to grab the edge of the wall, trying not to fall. You look down at him, and you wish you felt anger but instead there's this childish stab of fear. 

"Bastard! What the hell-!"

"Don't go accusing me of something like that."

His voice is deep, strong next to your shaky tone. You lose out. He stares up at you impassively, eyes a vibrant green.

"You're a hard worker, Ruggie. I'll give you that."

When he says your name, he gets your attention. Like a dog beckoned. It makes something burn in you.

"But I didn't want you for anything like that. So don't get any wrong ideas."

He lets go, and you finally notice the panicked hammering of your heart. You want to kick him. You get this fun and embarrassing little fantasy in your head of grabbing him and falling backwards. You want to see if cats really can land on their feet. You want him to be at your mercy for once.

(It is the first time you think this. It won't be the last.)

Instead, you sneer at him, baring your fangs. The compliment rings in your chest, but you don't let it stop you.

"You didn't answer me."

He smiles very easily, as if amused at your anger. It would be so easy, you think, to just grab those broad shoulders, and fall.

"You think you'll get an answer out of me?"

"...Not really."

"Then don't ask." 

He stalks back, assured, his spine ramrod straight. Something simmers in you, but you know you're too weak to call it anger, to call it pride. Instead it's the dissatisfaction of a failed hunt, at being left in the dark when you wanted and tried for something to no avail. Trying to get anything out of Leona was like digging into hard earth, trying to find some vein of water. Tiring and seemingly impossible. You will hit this wall again and again, but you don't know that yet. All you know is that you're one in a million who has probably tried. 

But you are a hard worker. You don't see any point in throwing up your hands and accepting defeat.

"Leona."

"Hm?"

He looks over his shoulder at you, half-interest. You still have good balance on the railing, unafraid of the dangers.

"You're such a bastard."

You are ready to be pushed from the balcony. You keep waiting for all his perceived pushbacks, and you wonder if you are just used to the worse scenario. That maybe it wasn't him, but you, on guard and prepared for the disaster. But he doesn't do this (of course he doesn't; he's a bastard but he's not cruel). Instead he grins at you, all fangs and love, and you're getting a picture of maybe why he reached out to you.

You've caught his eye.


	2. To Turn this World Upside Down

Soon enough both your edges begin to smooth down and match, like puzzle pieces you had to muscle together. It takes no effort from either of you. It all comes very naturally because you're both rotten people that look on the world in amusement and scorn. Similarly you look at each other in the same way, and don't let it be a mystery on how you think of each other.

He catches on quickly how much of a greedy bastard you are, from all your criticisms of his blaise attitude with money and his lack of apparent safety. You have to clean his damn room everyday, and everyday you hold up some shiny, expensive trinket of his in example. Are you serious? Do you know how much money I could get for this? Don't you have a safe? Don't just leave something like this lying around.

His barbs are similarly returned: I'm surprised you didn't pocket it. Finally taking the high road, Ruggie? Changed your ways?

No, you scoff at him. You think I want you throwing me against walls again? If I wanted that I'd just take you out to dinner.

He laughs at this, deep and throaty and it makes you smile. 

It's strange, but you like how it's equal. When you thought of a prince, you pictured someone soft and fragile, too sheltered to have anything in common with you. But Leona is all sharp edges, all warning signs and presence. He feels familiar to you. And it's nice to have someone to rib, who wouldn't take it personally. That's everything you know from the slums, packed up and shipped here somehow. It's comfortable just as much as it is unexpected. You won't say it's a soft spot. You'll just call it a nice break from the rest of this school, from all the pomp and circumstance you're still getting used to.

This is not to say anything meaningful is growing from this. It's shallow and it's all surface-level of course. You've just upgraded from awkward beginnings to something like friendship. You don't dig deeper than that because you don't see the point. You have no desire to become his friend. You have no deep interest in him. This is just a nice set up, and some nice conversation.

You don't mean to change your tune, but it happens when you catch him on the phone one afternoon.

That day you were delivering some freshly laundered towels for him. You know he would need them because today there was Magifit practice, which you sadly couldn't attend today due to your part time gig at Mostro Lounge. Your feet hurt. Your stomach grumbles in protest and you sure hope Leona is hungry. If he is, that means you can get something for yourself too with his money. God, you love that wallet. Seemingly endless and carelessly handed to you. You'd call it magic, but you know it's actually just privilege.

Before you open the door, you hear something like a growl from the other side. Your ears twitch in attention. You blink, confused. Your hand hovers over the door knob, but you don't move.

" _Of course I'm not coming home_." You hear Leona say low and mean, "I don't know why you even bother asking."

Silence. You strain your ears, and hear something faint but relentless in response. You can tell it's not another person in the room, the voice is too faded, and you can't make out any words. You quickly surmise he's on the phone and this isn't foreign to you. You've seen it plenty of times, but he's never gotten worked up before. Short and curt one word answers. Mostly listening and then some excuse to hang up. A long time ago, you put two and two together, getting some voyeuristic glimpse into the life of the royal family. At the time, you didn't care just like you didn't care in the past. So they talked to each other; so what? All families do.

But Leona is so subdued even if he felt dangerous. You have never seen him actually raise his voice, letting his confidence do all the threatening. So it catches you, this tone of his, this person you don't completely know.

You hear a faint _thwap_ on the bedsheets, and you guess it's his tail. He does that a lot, when he's mad.

" _Farena-"_

More response, cutting him off. You recognize the king's name quickly, and feel something struggle in your stomach.

"Look, just listen-" Leona continues, "You always get like this-!"

You blink. You don't know why but you practically lunge for that door knob, letting your presence be known. The scene you walk in makes you almost turn and flee, from the heavy atmosphere of just how badly you are intruding. You don't know what you expect to find. What you do find is Leona sitting on the edge of his bed, in his athletic wear save the shirt. His hair is still pulled back, and his eyes are looking at you wide. You get the sinking feeling you have made a mistake, because hostility dyes his surprise. You don't back down. You stare at each other for a moment, tense and unwelcome. The voice on the other end of the phone is still railing about something and now you can catch some words.

 _This always happens_ and _I have every right to know what's wrong_ and _Enough is enough._

You pretend you haven't heard anything and cut across the room, shutting the door behind you. You are suddenly very concentrated on putting the towels away. You can feel his eyes following you, but try your damndest not to turn and look at him. Shit. Should've just come back later. _Shit._

But hell, you're not a coward when you don't mean to be. You hated the idea that you could just sneak around with this secret about him without him being any the wiser. It made you feel _dirty_ somehow.

Another _thwap_ echoes in the room. This does catch your attention. When you turn to look at him, you're surprised to see him reaching out a hand to you.

"There's nothing wrong." Leona continues, but isn't turned to look at you, "You're the one who's making this an issue."

His back looks solid, the curve of muscles and shoulder blades, the sunlight highlighting all the ligaments. You are struck for a moment because he's actually beckoning you. He waves his hand in irritation, and you get the message. You hurry over, handing over a towel, and the line is silent. He takes the towel, wiping his brow, also waiting on the edge of something. Getting closer, you hear a final sentence, and the voice of the king sounds so different right now. You've seen him plenty of times on TV, this loud and dazzling politician. It's so weird to hear that voice be so dimmed, so human, with simple domestic conflict.

"Leona," he says tiredly, "I'm not the enemy here. I don't know why you keep making me the bad guy."

You look up, and feel your spine stiffen. Leona is glaring at you from under his brow, fierce and warning. As much as you had tried to hide, he casts a light on you like a thief caught in the dark. Your presence is very clearly noted, and you suspect will not be forgotten. He keeps his brother hanging for a moment, keeps you hanging, until he finally looks away.

"...I have to go."

"What?"

"I've got an underclassmen here." He flicks his eyes at you, "He needs something."

" _Leona-_ "

He hits _End_ without even so much as a goodbye. He does not immediately turn his attention to you; instead you watch as he studies the phone waiting. The screen lights up, and he hits _Ignore_ immediately _._ He does this with precision and prediction like he's done this plenty of times before.

The room feels very quiet. You are hoping he doesn't expect you to say anything, because you don't have anything you want to tell him. There's something like embarrassment mixed in your chest with exasperation. You don't want the burden of _knowing_ things about him. You should have just come back later. You are now in an awkward spot of being responsible for his problems by the bare fact of knowing they exist.

Maybe he'll tell you to get the fuck out. You're sort of hoping he'll decide for both of you what this is going to be. But you get antsy the more seconds past and you decide to just step in for both of you. You're the one who made this situation and you want to tell him (and yourself) what you actually meant.

"Ah," You stumble awkwardly, looking down "You're so damn lazy, huh? Don't just go throwing your clothes around on the floor."

Your tone is teasing like it always is, as you busy yourself picking up the tossed aside school uniform.

"Geez, like who do you think is gonna clean this up?" You say to the room, trying to make the atmosphere, "You know, have some sympathy for-"

"Ruggie."

You stop. God, please play along you wordlessly beg. Joke along with me. Tell me to get out. I don't know. Make this nothing, Leona. For God's sake, make this nothing.

"Next time." He says, final, "Knock."

You feel cold. The threat does not go unnoticed. You nod, but don't look at him.

"Yeah. Okay."

Another long silence stretches between you two. The air feels bad. There are plenty of superstitious types in the slums, at want of some reasoning of the world, of some hope. You remember all these old wives tales you've heard, bullshit ideas on protection and safety. You wonder what they would call this atmosphere. To you it screams 'danger' and 'bad karma'. You've stepped in a bad area, and need to tread carefully. You are formulating all these excuses to make to leave yourself. A more small part of yourself, a more fragile part, wants to say sorry.

You kinda want to tell him his brother sounds like a whiny bastard, but you have no idea if that would be a good or bad idea.

Then a heavy sigh fills the room, and your shoulders tense more. You’re just about to mourn losing this good opportunity. You’re gonna miss that wallet most of all, you think. You’re gonna miss those free rides and free lunches. But Leona does not lash out at you. Once again, he is hard to predict only because he makes the rules himself.

“You didn’t hear anything here, got it?”

“Huh?”

Turning to look at him you find him still watching you, still and observant. He softens a bit, but not in defeat but instead, some tiredness descending on him. He looks away and reaches back, pulling out the hair tie, shaking his hair wild.

“I don’t want you spreading this.” He explains, exhausted. You blink, confused.

“Why would I spread this?”

“Don’t play dumb. Look, is it money? How much to buy your silence?”

You feel some heat of offense at this wash over you. You are quick to guess what he’s accusing you of and you don’t take kindly to it. You are very aware that blackmail is a rich commodity in this school, and that blackmail over a _dorm leader_ is practically gold. But if that had been your aim you wouldn’t have burst in like this. Poison like that is best slipped nonchalantly behind his back, when he is least suspecting it, when he is left with no escape. And this catches on you too; why did you come in then? Why not take the blackmail? 

His brother’s voice, pleading and small, is still itching in your ears and it makes you feel sorry for him. Thinking of taking that and using it against him, makes you just feel more ill. You won’t call this sympathy, but pity. It’s the same sickness you get from the casual cruelty people have used against you, your existence made into nothing but a pastime. It’s not sympathy. This is just to reinforce your own morals.

“Oh get off it, Leona.” You sneer at him, “I don’t want anything to do with this.”

“What was that?”

“So you fight with your brother? Who cares. All families fight.” You wave him off, still grimacing, “So don’t get me involved with it.”

You feel frustrated then, simmering like a volcano about to burst. This is so stupid, you think. Family drama you had no business with, and no business knowing. Some holier-than-thou prince trying to get you out of his hair. Problems and issues, and a spider web of responsibility you got yourself caught in. You settle the score for you two: you have no interest, no intentions, and no care for the things he carried.

(And you suspect this will make a riff between you two, some awkward thing to sit between what you had been building together. You think that will be fine; as long as the pay keeps coming.)

Leona watches you, unreadable but serious as always. It feels like forever, but his response is more immediate. He looks down, to the towel in his hand, deep in thought. And it’s small, but missable, a flash of something sweet: a pained smile, relieved but unsurprised. Hurt and thankful. 

You feel as if you have saved something, but you can’t name it. His pride maybe. Your job.

Each other?

It’s gone just as soon as it was there. He looks up at you, unamused and haughty. He asks, voice normal as ever, if you remembered to bring him something to eat. He gets hungry after practice. Are you slipping, Ruggie? You call him ‘slave driver’. You ask for his wallet, and he tosses it to you like it’s nothing.

You ask if you can get something too?

He says whatever.

(And just like you both like it, you don’t bring it up again, and nothing changes.)

* * *

It’s so strange, but you end up getting a glimpse of the dorm leader's life despite only being a first year. It’s the proximity which allows you to get this view, and while you could honestly care less, it ends up giving you a fun show sometimes. You think this after you go to fetch Leona after a dorm leader meeting, intent on getting him to the library to study like he promised he would. Granted, he gave you this promise after you nagged at him that morning about his schedule, and after you’ve learned he’s been held back an almost embarrassing amount of times. The library’s right there. You’re not stupid, are you?

He had answered you with a whap of his tail against his bed, whip sharp and mad, but you didn’t flinch. Instead he had grumbled into his pillow that _fine_ , he’ll go after the meeting, _damn_. To be honest, you won’t say you’re particularly worried about Leona, but you get petty when you see his room and think of his grades. _Someone_ has to knock him into place, and all the rest of the Savanaclaw is just too scared to say anything. 

(Also, maybe you are trying to just do things right after that whole phone call. Who knows? Sure as hell not _you_ ; you’ll just call it setting a rich kid straight, and leave it at that.) 

You’ve seen the theatre of the rest of the dorm leaders and already know the names of the other dorms after getting used to your school life. So you are not at all surprised that when you see Leona descend the stairs, returning from the Headmaster’s office, he was already in a foul mood.

Lions are easy to read; you like talking with the beastmen in this school because you got used to animalistic tells from your upbringing. His tail is swinging back and forth like in warning, and he’s scratching the back of his head, already heaving a big, dramatic sigh like returning from battle. When he catches the sight of you, he narrows his eyes. He must have forgotten.

“Oh, right.” Is all he tells you, proving you right. You roll your eyes, holding his textbooks under your arms. You tap them against the side of your thigh in annoyance.

“I can’t tell if you have bad memory, or if you just don’t care. C’mon.” You beckon him, motioning with your chin for him to follow. You half-expect him to kick up more of a fuss, but surprisingly he follows after you, even if in languid disobedience. He drags his feet but can’t manage to really make anything of it. You find it kind of funny.

“That bad this time?” You ask, intentionally picking at a wound. He sighs, again, and you grin.

“These things are just a headache. You can’t get any of those guys to work together, I don’t know why the Headmaster tries.”

“Oh?”

“The little red lord has to abide by the rules. Octopus bastard has to make money somehow. Vil keeps calling out people if they’re not doing it perfectly. And Kalim just thinks it’s all a game.”

You’re smirking now. Despite the comedy this provides you, you can tell Leona is still mad.

“Sounds fun.”

“As if. I’d rather be sleeping.” He scoffs, “You just think it’s funny because you don’t have to deal with it.”

“Yup!”

“Bastard.”

God, you’re so _boring_ you think of him, but don’t say anything. It’s said that hyenas are a cheerful sort, but you like to say it's more that you guys have been served such a bad deal, that you just find the joy where you can. One could say you are a deft hand at dark humor because what else is there to laugh at? You wonder why lions are so serious. You wonder if you’ve ever seen Leona laugh, or if they’re just a joyless breed as is. You tap his textbooks again, and look up in thought.

“...Maybe you should join the circus."

" _Huh_?"

He says this bluntly, with some threatening tone under its execution. You grin however, cocky and mischievous.

"I mean think about it, it's perfect. You'll be like one of those show lions they put on display."

"You tryin' to make me mad?"

"Let me finish," you begin to laugh, but try to hold it back, "It's perfect because then everyone's happy; Riddle will be happy to see you follow the rules. Azul could make some money. Vil gets the chance to dress you up. And Kalim gets to have his party."

Leona says nothing behind you. The image alone is making you crack up, the ridiculous idea of it, making a mockery of all those leaders. You wonder if Leona is catching on or if he's so damn serious that it won't get through to him.

"...You're such a bastard." He mutters, but you can sense a smile in that voice. You shrug, and look over your shoulder at him. He's smirking, which makes you feel like you've done well. Makes you feel good.

"Why?" You ask, and then laugh, "Thought you loved being in the spotlight, Leona!"

Finally, he breaks for you; Leona's laugh manages to be just as threatening as the rest of him, an edge of a growl to it, his fangs shining in daylight. But it's nice to see him loosen up, and you feel a swell of some sort of accomplishment at it. Hyena getting a lion to laugh; doesn't that sound nice?

"...That lizard would be better at it." he adds with a chuckle, and you laugh with him.

"Oh, you think? Maybe we can get him to breathe fire on command." You stretch your arms wide in front of you like displaying a marquis, "Come watch the astounding dragon, one night only."

"Hey," Leona tacks on, devilishly, "He finally gets to be invited to something. Good for him."

You crack up at this instantly, the joke hitting you from nowhere. Leona can make it count when he wants, you think. He's less of an uptight royal than you previously thought. You jolt as you feel his arm wrapped around your shoulder, missing the sound of his hurried steps to catch up with you. He's heavy with muscle, and he smells like the dusty elegance of the head master's office. You're not a stranger to skinship, but you look up at him in surprise.

"Hey," he tells you without letting you catch your breath, "we're making a detour."

_"Huh?"_

"Don't give me that tone. We'll go to the library." He scoffs at you, "But I'm thirsty. We're stopping by Sam's shop."

On the surface, this sounds reasonable to you. But the mood between you two is so strangely fun and comforting that something in you finches in response.

"What's this? You could just send me to get them."

"I want to stretch my legs." He tells you, tiredly, but not looking at you. "I was sitting in that stupid meeting for so long I need some fresh air."

It sounds like an excuse, but it also could be the truth. You wonder about that, but then wonder if there's any point of it. You end up chatting more, easily and openly, sarcastically dragging others and poking fun at each other. Leona is easy to talk to. You think of how everyone in Savanaclaw obeys him, sees him as this intimidating figure. You wonder why you are different. Maybe you just thought it was silly to feel intimidated by a lion who did nothing but sleep and whine his days away.

Well. He gets your brand of humor. And that's pretty nice, you think.

Without asking he buys you something too. You don't ask about it because you know he'll just threaten to return it. It's a fizzy soda, and it bubbles in your throat on your walk to the library. It tastes like summer. 

And you don't ask him anything. You just assume it's just the right place and the right time, and don't let it mean anything else to you.

* * *

The months go by in a flash and before you know it, the holidays are here. Time goes by fast when you keep busy. You struggle and endure through midterm tests until you finally hit the home stretch, until you can finally go back home. You have been keeping contact with your grandma, calling every so often, texts here and there. Still, you would be lying if you said you weren’t a little homesick. Getting used to Night Raven College wasn’t so bad, but getting by on the skin of your teeth is tiresome after awhile. You know the slums like the back of your hand, and it would be nice to come back to something you know.

This will begin your tradition of packing as much food as you can to bring back home to the others. You get the idea a few months before you actually leave, and you fill your schedule with as many part time jobs as you can to save up some money too. It’s a garbage dump, but you like your neighborhood. It’s vastly preferable to this stiff academic setting where you will never completely be able to relax.

Thankfully, Leona does not need you too much at this time. A week earlier you ask if he needs help packing, but he waves you off. All he needs is his phone and wallet. You guess it’s because he’ll have everything he’ll need in the palace. Lucky bastard.

“I wish I could return to a nice castle too.” You roll your eyes at him, jealous and teasing, “Nice comfy bed and all the food you could want. _Lucky._ ”

“It’s not that great.” He frowns, “It’s a hassle, but my brother wants me to go.”

Lately he hasn’t been so skittish about dropping hints about his family here and there with you. Like it was casually introduced into the conversation, so much that it wouldn’t stand out. It’s nice that he’s not so sensitive about it. Still, in this moment, you can’t help but feel a little miffed at how good he has it, and how wasted it is on him.

You think about scolding him about this too, but just can’t get the energy for it. It’s like none of it gets through to him anyway.

Traveling through a mirror is such a weird thing to get used to, going from the cool air of the school to the musty air of Afterglow Savannah. But the smells and sounds ground you in a weird primal way that feels like childhood pleasantness. Taking the bus back to the slums feels so familiar too; you get all sorts of dirty looks for all the stuff you're carrying, a social blight, but you don't care. You watch the scenery passing through the window and it's so familiar to you just how the surroundings slowly begin to degrade the closer you get home. The bus jumps on all the potholes in your neighborhood, your tail is sore from the ride, and you are home. 

You don't know why but you thought your grandma would have changed with all the time it's felt since you've been gone. Maybe it's you who has changed though. Maybe you're the only one who feels like a kid in clothes too big. Everything is as you left it; the kids chase you down the street, peppering you with questions about the college, about magic, but mostly about all the food. Your first day back home is spent in catching up and delivering food to the whole neighborhood. It's divided evenly in snappy negotiation. It's funny how in the market your neighborhood will spend hours haggling prices in the market, but when it comes to sharing, you all work together to make sure everything is fair and even. You get a lot of ridiculous compliments: have you gotten taller? What magic have you learned? Are they treating you well there, Ruggie? You better not let those bastards get to you.

You receive this all well, laughing and jabbing, keeping each other humble and in check.

You find out that even though your grandma is the same, she tells you what _has_ changed: babies have been born. Stores are going under or opening up. Your crush from third grade has gotten married. You make a face at this: she's too young, you argue but your grandmother waves you off. Love is a powerful thing, she tells you, but you think it's just puppy love without self-restraint. She asks if you've met anyone at Night Raven College. You laugh and tell her you're working too damn hard for any of that business.

You eat well that night, and argue over the money you try to give her. She asks if you're studying enough, with all that money you're sending home. You try to convince her you _are,_ that your grades are _fine_ but she sighs at you disapprovingly. Didn't send you to that school to work your tail off. If we wanted that, you could have just stayed home.

You're arguing, but not really arguing. The home feels full with your voices. Your bed is just as threadbare as it was when you left it, and you sleep better than any night you have in Savanaclaw.

The holiday, predictably, is spent working. You're an extra set of hands returned to a struggling neighborhood, so of course you are working. You take care of all the things around the house that your grandmother couldn't when you were gone; you patch the roof. Take care of that stupid sink that won't stop dripping. Mentally you are calculating how many hours you'd have to work at Mostro Lounge to just replace all these old things. You tell your grandmother to get the neighbors to help her with this next time, that it wouldn't hurt. She tuts: the mother next door has five kids and one deadbeat son, how could I _possibly._ I can live with a leaky roof until you come back.

You roll your eyes and think she's such a saint. You mentally calculate how many shifts it would take to earn enough to hire help, too.

On the third day, you go to the flea market. You pile into an old car with one of your neighbors, her two kids, and your grandmother to go sell and buy. It's treated as a fun little excursion, to go into town and make a quick buck, and to go shopping. You, personally, also like it because all the tourists on vacation means prime opportunity for pick-pocketing. 

The car is too small, and barely staying together. The air conditioning doesn't work so you all have to open the windows to get any relief from the perpetual heat of Afterglow Savannah. You are made to sit in the back, in the trunk of the car, because there's not enough seats. You sit there, huddled back with your knees pressed to your chest, sharing room with the crate of goods you all hope to sell. The kids are sweet; the little boy plays games on his mother's phone with its cracked screen, and the little girl is turned to talk to you, sitting up on her knees to get all your stories about the college. Your grandmother and neighbor are talking in the front but you can't hear their conversation because the radio is turned up, playing some trendy pop song. It's loud, and noisy, and everything you know.

The hot wind whips at you from the open windows and the little girl is playing with your magic pen. She says the gem is pretty. She also tells you that she has decided not to marry you. You act in fake hurt, and aghast. What? What happened to 'we're gonna get married and live in a big castle'? She tells you that she wants to marry the boy from the bakery now. The new part-timer? We're gonna get married and he's gonna bake our wedding cake, and it's gonna be chocolate. You offer to make her a flower crown then. She agrees, because she says you make them the best.

And they have to be daffodils, Ruggie. _Daffodils._ You have to remember that, okay?

You ask _dandelions?_ and she pouts at you. It's almost heart-meltingly adorable.

The traffic builds up as you all approach the city, out-of-towners visiting Afterglow Savannah for the holidays. You can tell them from their polished faces and mystified looks, looking into cars and watching walking travelers, getting snapshots of all these little lives. You spot mothers from the Land of Pyroxene rubbing sunscreen on their kid's arms, mermaids from the Sea of Corals trying to make sense of the maps on their phones, stumbling on new legs. You pass by the palace and that's where the traffic is worse. It inches only a minute at a time, and so with nothing better to do you look up at its storied visage, tall and proud, a beauty in the capital.

You think of him. Of course you do. You wonder if he's in there right now. You wonder how he's spending his holiday. You bet he's just napping, as usual, all his splendor and riches promptly ignored and going to waste. Your knees are starting to get stiff, and sweat beads on the back of your neck. You think you should be mad at him, but instead it's just a very gentle curiosity that surrounds him in your mind.

Maybe his brother manages to get him to eat his vegetables. That's a sight you wish you could see.

For some reason, tourists seem to think that hyenas are these ultra-crafty types who, due to the notice they got from the King of Beasts, are something like a 'hidden treasure' with 'much to offer'. You won't deny you aren't crafty at least; you're all very good at ripping them off. Your neighbor is a pretty and gentle woman to her children, that uses her maternal air to her advantage to get tourists to pay crazy prices. It's hard to haggle with a mother when her children are sitting right in her lap. Similarly your grandmother plays up the 'gentle old woman' act to impart more meaning to the junk she sells these saps. 'Oh yes, they said the past Queen wore this necklace' or 'this blanket has been passed down in my family for ages'. A lot of them fall for it and you all make a nice, tidy profit. You are a master at the business spiel because you’ve been helping in the markets since you knew how to walk. You talk smooth and charismatic. A few tourists get up the courage to ask you to take their pictures with their cameras and phones. And it’s almost palpable, the anxiety they display, handing you their expensive technology. It’s not as if it’s not tempting; each gadget that passes your palm, you cannot help but think what it could pay for. Electricity that keeps getting shut off. New fridge that won’t spoil half the food. Some shoes for the neighborhood kids that have been walking on bare feet for years now. But their nervous smiles don’t escape your notice. They are acting cordial with you, but cagey, because they’ve _heard_ things about Afterglow Savannah, they _know_ things about you before they ever met you. So you smile. You tell them to give you a big toothy grin just like the King of Beasts and they ease up, realizing they were scared for nothing.

And when you hand back their cameras and phones, you sneak away with a watch, loose change, a wedding ring. And you don’t feel sorry at all. 

The sun hits its highest height, and the kids have started getting antsy from boredom and empty stomachs. The profits you’ve made so far will not be going to lunch because it was meant to pay bills and taxes. Instead you pool pocket change together with the mother, and agree to take the kids to get something to snack on. She thanks you for babysitting and you all do a bit of window shopping on the way to get ice cream. You walk hand in hand, talking about how you’d want to buy this or that. You dream for a little while.

The ice cream is too expensive. (They keep raising the prices in the capital, all because of the tourists.) You three instead settle for the bakery next door, and it's day old stock at a reasonable discount. You bite through stale bread together, and you lick your hands of sticky glaze from a donut. It’s not half bad if you pair it with something to drink.

You people watch for a while, and the little boy is looking up, to the palace’s roof still in the distance. It’s so big, it’s hard to lose in the city’s skyline. He asks you if it’s true that Prince Leona attends Night Raven College. Have you met him? He looks cool. He’s really good at magical shift; have you seen him play?

You almost want to laugh, but instead you play it cool. Nah, you lie. Never met him.

You listen to Leona’s legendary exploits on the magifit field, and know for a fact it’s three years old. You wonder why he stopped putting in all that effort. You remember his brother’s voice again, a strained expression on his face, and then stop thinking about him altogether.

It’s just not worth the effort.

The heat makes the day go by slower then it actually should. The air is dry and almost suffocating, the crowds kicking up dust and noise. Eventually the sun begins to set and the market slowly closes up. You pack up less than you came with which is what you all wanted. But it was a nice profit, and your own pockets are full of stolen splendor. You will not tell your grandmother about this, because she doesn’t know you still steal. The first time she caught you was a violent affair of yelling and insults and ended in tears that still makes your stomach sink to this day. She had told you that if you’re going to be a _thief_ , then don’t do it in a way where you’ll obviously be _caught_. But you are still young, sixteen, and you still think you are indestructible. 

The drive home is long, the kids asleep in the backseat, and you are already planning when you should sneak off to the pawn shop tomorrow to get money for these goods. You watch from the window as the sun sinks into the horizon and the sky turns from orange to blue in a slow-motion miracle. You feel exhausted from the hot day, your legs achy and your skin clammy. But it’s a peaceful fatigue of a good day of hard work. You feel yourself dozing off too, the radio playing softly in the background, lulling you to sleep with scratchy songs.

You are late to notice the headlights in the dark of the night.

It didn’t seem strange to you at first. Another car on the road isn’t so strange a sight on its own. But it was the fact that it followed you all for as many miles as it did. The closer the roads got to the slums the less traffic was usually there. It is ten at night, and it makes you feel antsy like prey seeing something watching from the bushes. You watch from the back window, but can’t make out anyone in the car from the bright of their headlights. It’s almost blinding. What begins to scare you the most is how close it drives, and both cars are almost bumper to bumper when you know you are _meant_ to be scared.

You tell your neighbor, who you now see in the dark is rigid, her knuckles tight as she gripped the steering wheel. She braves a glance back to you, to the car, and then looks forward again.

“I know.” She says, in frightened steadiness, “I saw them a while back.”

“Anaya,” your grandmother tells her in hushed tones, “pull into somewhere.”

“I know.”

But before any move can be made, the car kicks into speed and you all jump from the sudden gun of their engine. It swerves out into the other lane and then cuts your car off. Your neighbor practically has to kick the break before she accidentally hits them, and she’s shaking now. Their car is parked sideways in front of you, blocking your way of escape. Your neighbor is now breathing hard and panicked and you all watch in frightened expectation at what will happen next. The strange car sits idle for a moment before the driver finally cuts the engine, and then the night is very quiet, and more dark. You watch, almost in horror, as not just the driver’s door opens, but _all_ of them. Four men step out of the car, big and impeding. You spot their ears in the stark light of the headlights. _Lions_.

Your stomach clenches. A familiar fear kicks in, age old but still as strong as it ever needed to be to control you.

They walk with prideful swagger to your little car, which now feels like the weakest defense in the world. They are smiling, but not kindly, and one of them knocks on the driver’s side glass, like he was just saying hello. Your neighbor hesitates for a moment, her hyena ears bent down in submission. Finally, she lowers the window a bit, just enough to talk. He leans down, all muscle and confidence, and grins at her widely. His sharp teeth are very bright and very horrible.

“Good evening, ma’am! So sorry, didn’t mean to scare you there. How you doin’ tonight?”

He talks politely and in good nature, but you watch as his friends circle your car, peering in at you, sizing up the situation.

“I....” She gulps, glancing to his car, and back, “I’m doing fine.”

“Hot night, isn’t it? God, sometimes I feel like I’m gonna die in this weather, you know?”

You spot one of them eyeing you, and then the near empty crate near you. You feel as if you have been backed into a corner somehow, and you also begin to size up the situation. Why is it, in situations like this, it seems like the whole world disappears and so it’s only you who can save yourself? It feels like there’s not a soul within miles of this road. But also you know full well the situation, probably just as much as they do. 

Area near the slums. Back roads the government hasn’t come out to repair in ages. Car full of women, children, and one teenage boy.

 _Shit_.

“Yeah.” Your neighbor nods, and she’s avoiding eye contact now. She looks ahead, remaining calm, “Um, actually, it’s very late and I-”

“Oh, is this your family?” The lion ignores her, “Cute kids. That your son back there?”

You catch him staring at you and you feel something grip your heart. You glare at him full on, sick of this, sick of all of this. You want to bare your fangs at him, to impart some kind of superiority, but you’re still just a kid. Just sixteen. You think you are invincible when you’re on top, and feel the crushing reality when you are not. Instead, frightened and on edge, you just settle for glaring at him and wordlessly telling him to _go the fuck away_ like that will work.

It doesn’t work. Obviously. He looks away, back to her, and you are nothing.

“Can I, uh,” she gulps, and ducks her head, “Can I help you, sir?”

“Oh, I sure hope you can, miss.” He smiles, terrible, “Actually we saw all of you in the flea market today. You hyenas are always such hard workers, huh? Can’t help but notice that.”

She says nothing.

“Look, me and my buddies are looking for a few workers. It’s a good job. Even the kids can help.”

“We’re not interested.” Your grandmother speaks up, her tone steely. He doesn’t look bothered by it, however, and is still smiling.

“No? Come on, we’ll pay you well.” He pauses. He licks his lips. “Probably more than what you made today.”

Your heart is hammering in your chest at this point, your stomach clenched in so many knots you feel as if you will tear at the edges. The adults continue to try to politely and resolutely refuse but the man keeps talking, his tail swinging back and forth lazily in mild interest. His voice is unnervingly calm next to their restrained hurriedness. Your mind begins to run. And you know what could happen, what he can really be saying here. If it was as harmless as a good-paying job there wouldn’t be a need for all this intimidation, for all this cornering. A million different scenarios play out in your mind and all of them make you feel sick. All of them end in the same thing; you are at their mercy, you are weaker than them, and you are just the kill ready to be eaten.

No one’s coming for you. No one’s here to save you. 

No one gives a damn about some thieving hyenas headed back to the slums. 

You move slow, hand reaching into your pocket and you grip your pen like it’s the only thing that can save you. It probably is. You’ve spent a few months at Night Raven College, and suddenly you struggle to remember all your lessons. You’ve gotta do _something._ You know magic now; that has to mean something.

You hear soft murmuring in the back seat, and the children have begun to stir from their sleep. The little boy blinks blearily, wincing from the light of the headlights. He slowly gets a feel of the situation, looking around confused.

He asks his mother who these men are.

“Nobody, honey.” She tells him, cold, “Go back to sleep.”

It drains from you in an instant. It’s not that you are strong enough; it’s that you now realize just how much you have to protect. This isn’t like school where you can show off your abilities for low stakes like respect. There are people here to protect, people you know, you’ve grown up with, who will be forced to depend on you even if you fuck this up. And you feel so small and weak; what do you know anyway? Low level spells against four opponents? What will that accomplish other than distracting them or riling them up? If you lost here, it wouldn’t be only your loss but theirs as well. What can you do, Ruggie? You’re just a first year.

You’re just a hyena from the slums.

You curse yourself, and you curse this world, and you let go of the pen but not a solution. You act before you can get the chance to doubt yourself. You reach back and open the back door in fast reflex. You flinch as you see the other men jump, hostility in their stances, but you force a smile at them. You hold your hands up in fake surrender.

“Hey, hey,” You laugh, forcing yourself to sound relaxed, “No need to get all jumpy.”

You climb out of the car, suddenly acutely aware of all your movements and hope they don’t look intimidating. You’re all skin and bones and lazy saunter. You want them to think of you as small, as young, as powerless. You approach the man, the low hum of the car’s engine filling the emptiness of the vast road. He looks you up and down, and his jovial attitude is replaced with some cautious aggression. You keep smiling like you don’t know better.

“I couldn’t help but hear; you want us to work for you? Come on, we’re all tired from working today, we won’t be any good for ya.”

You talk fast but you’re amazing because your voice doesn’t waver. The man is still watching you, and he doesn’t seem amused at this. You keep talking so he won’t take a swing at you.

“But, hey look, I can respect a good hustle.” You quickly tack on, “Here, just-.”

You pull out a wallet you lifted earlier that day, and you make sure to do it slow so he doesn’t get any wrong ideas. The ways his eyes shine when he sees you pulling out money makes you feel disgusted, but you also can’t say you’re surprised. You count out some bills, making sure it's a hefty and satisfying amount. You hold it out to him, still flashing an easygoing smile.

“Hire yourself some good help. You can probably get someone better then we could be for you.”

He stares at you, hard, and it feels like forever passes in those seconds. Your knees are weak and every part of you is screaming to just _run_ , to just _attack_ , to do anything other than showing your belly like this. You wait for him to hit you. You wait for one of his friends to grab you, and for them to pull you all out of the car and do something unspeakable. You are waiting for violence that you are powerless to stop, at the mercy and whims of people who society sees as more important than you.

You hate this situation. You hate this man. You hate your weakness, and your social standing, and everything unfair.

But most of all, in this moment, you hate this world.

Slowly, the corners of his mouth lift, and first you think it is a snarl, but then turns into a smile. All fangs shown off to you in gleeful superiority.

“Wow, kids are so generous these days.”

You do not breathe a sigh of relief. You just feel very dirty. He counts the money before he shows any signs of letting you all go.

“You know,” He says to you, slow and meaningful, “good work is so _hard_ to come by these days.”

You end up giving him all the money in your wallet before he’s finally satisfied.

The rest is a blur. You must have had to endure some fake thanks and praise, some stupid small talk to keep you dangling on the edge of the cliff before he was finished playing with you. The rest is a daze, as you watch their car recede into the night, and your neighbor finally pulls the car back into drive. You all sit there in silence, heavy and suffering as you make your way back home. The silence is broken when one of the kids slowly breaks into a sob, overcome with emotion. You reach over and hold their hand and hush at them that it’s okay. It’s okay.

“Ruggie,” the mother chokes from the front seat, trying to hold back tears, “thank you.”

“...It’s nothing.”

“I’ll pay you back when we get home.”

“You don’t have to pay me anything.”

You wish you could say something else right now. Curse out those men. Tell her you would have done more. You _wish_ you could have done more. You wish you were stronger and wonder what good was magic if you couldn’t protect anyone with it. But instead that silence suffocates everything with its unspoken message. There’s only one reason any of this happened. This is just reality for your kind. This is what happens to the people pushed into the shadows, expendable in the eyes of many, cursed from the day they were born. It always happens like this, a slap in the face to keep you grounded in reality. You can live just as much as other people do, have your good days, but the bad days will always come. The bad days are assured. This was just your lot in life, and no struggle could ever change that.

Tiredly, suddenly feeling very sad and lost, you look behind you to the city you were leaving behind. Still there, in the distance, was the palace, shining like a beacon. 

It almost feels like it was mocking you. You bare your teeth in anger.

For the first time, you wish you could turn this world upside down.


	3. You Never Tell Me Anything

You cannot stomach to look at him when you come back, and you are irritated to know he catches on to this.

"What's wrong?"

Saying your goodbyes wasn't as hard as you thought it would be, and coming back was a smooth transition. But something is sitting heavy in your chest returning to your post, like a soldier doubting the war he's in. Well, maybe not so dramatic. But when you see him now you cannot help but think of silhouettes against headlights, of fangs that were cruel and true. You can get as angry as you want, but was being here, serving him, any better? Are you as mad as you say, or are you just supporting a structure you claim to hate?

Basically you feel like a hypocrite and you're not sure who to be angry at for that, but you can't get rid of the anger either. Makes you feel shitty.

"Ruggie."

"I heard you."

You're folding his clothes as he lazily looks over a chessboard, playing against himself. (Another hobby of his you note, but it's so obtuse to you, a game with rules you don't know that you don't bother to ask.) He is reclined on his bed, lounging beast, tail swinging back and forth in interest. He moves another piece, and places a shiny black knight to the side, taken out of the fight. He shakes his bangs out of his eyes, hair warm amber in the sunlight, and slides his eyes to you, waiting for you to come rather than call for you. You look away. Maybe you shouldn't have come today. Wonder if the money was worth it.

"Nothing's wrong." You deflect. He scoffs.

"Bullshit. You've been quiet ever since you came back." Leona hovers his hand over the board, before he makes his move, "Usually I can't get you to even shut up."

 _"Hey-_ "

"What happened? Homesick already?"

"No."

"Someone's giving you trouble?" He grins, "You the type to run with your tail between your legs, Ruggie?"

"Shut up." You sneer at him, stung by how wrong but right he is, "What do you care? Thought you liked your peace and quiet."

Leona levels his gaze at you but you're not sorry for acting up. Maybe it'll get him off your back. You were not in the mood to see him, and similarly you're not in the mood to entertain his passing fancies. Leona is a very secure person, closed off to many, so you don't see why you should give him anything different. 

"It's not like you." He clarifies, "Something happened."

You hate how he says this with the same assuredness that it was truth, and you hate even more that he's not wrong. But you remain steadfast in the idea of keeping to yourself so you just glare at him. Then, you smile.

"Pay me a thousand madol and maybe I'll tell you."

"...Huh?"

"Look, I'm sure you had a super fun time in the palace and it's a real downer to come back here. But if you want me to entertain you, you'll have to pay up first."

His eyes narrow. He sits up, his tail taut as if in anticipation. 

"...That's not why I'm asking."

"No? Well, doesn't matter to me," You scoff at him, turning back to your work, "Doesn't change anything either; if you wanna know so badly, pay me."

You hear the bed shift, but don't give in the urge to look at him. You're feeling very petty now and immature, driven by a childish need to retain your pride and to not back from your stance. You refused to show weakness here, as if that would rectify the situation from before, like you were reclaiming something for yourself. Ego, most likely. That is not what you are actually doing, by the way. What you are _actually_ doing is being a little shit because you're mad and don't know how to act.

"You know, this is your problem," he almost growls, his voice low, "You're so damn guarded."

"Huh?"

"You think you can only rely on yourself. You throw a fit when people just want to help. You think you're some kinda lone wolf or something?"

" _Hey-!_ "

"You think you're too good to accept help from anyone else." He sneers at you. "It's so damn obvious you can't handle this on your own. This shit you're pulling isn't cute or cool, Ruggie, it's just pitiful."

Your heart clenches in a way you don't know why, don't anticipate and a cold silence descends on you. You feel like you've been slapped. You stare at him, wide-eyed. You want to be offended. The better response is to be offended but instead you just feel the pain of being punched in the stomach and knowing you can't get up to defend yourself. A million retorts struggle in your throat, but it all sounds just as childish as he claims. 

You don't know why, but you sorta feel like you've been betrayed. Like all these walls you've been putting up could just be kicked in like they didn't matter. Like your efforts weren't as good as you thought.

Leona is damn good at reading you, and so you are speechless.

You look down to the clothes you were folding, _his_ clothes, and it's like it all just weighs on you. Your situation follows you even here. You are small. And you are nothing.

The atmosphere is very awkward then, and you are reminded of the phone call. It's just like back then, but now _you_ are the wounded animal in the spotlight. You try to think of an excuse to leave. You wonder if he feels triumphant now, but when you look you are surprised.

Leona looks mad, but he's not looking at you. 

Like he's frustrated at something, this situation or himself. His ears are back in submission, and it's strange to you to see him like this. Most of everything he does is dyed in arrogance or annoyance but this was different. This was vulnerable. He looks upwards, like looking for answers in the ceiling, skittish in the wake of his own words.

"...Say something."

"Huh?"

"You're not gonna get mad?" Leona's voice gets a weird trill to it like he's growling at this, "At least say something."

You open your mouth then close it. Orders and hierarchies and things expected of you. You decide to take this from him too, in an effort to preserve yourself, in a backwards example of proving him right.

"...How can I? You're not...not wrong, I guess." You mutter, and wish you could say something meaner. Crueler. You just feel very open. 

Leona does not look happy at this. You wonder how deep he's going to dig this hole, but it looks like he realizes that too. His tail hits the bed like a whip, and then he looks away.

He combs his bangs back, his hair a fine mess. And he frowns, deeply, unsatisfied like he's embarrassed.

Very briefly, something jolts your heart. Despite heavy atmosphere and wounded pride, very innocently you cannot help but find him cute right now.

"...I guess we both have trouble at home." Leona mutters then. You blink. It stands out blatantly, something so giving.

"Leona?"

He furrows his brow and brings his hand down, hair strands falling in his vision. He looks very vulnerable then, like he was trying something new and didn't want to look like an amateur. He struggles with something internally for a while, like weighing all his options, coming to terms with new rules. He looks up at you then, determined and honest. 

"Ruggie." He tells you, "Tell me about your home."

" _What_?"

"You never talk about it. Tell me about where you grew up."

"Why should I?" You immediately scoff. "Where's this coming from?"

"Stop being stubborn. I asked, so tell me."

You have gone from feeling wounded to complete bewilderment. Leona has never shown interest in you like this before, content with his own self and feelings. You have no idea why he is changing his tune, and so guarded as you are, you assume the worst.

"I already told you, I grew up in the slums."

"I know. Tell me what it's like."

You laugh at him, incredulous. He was being a real piece of work now.

"It's poor and it's dirty." You turn your nose at him, "There. Satisfied?"

You catch it at the last moment, reflexes honed from magifit. You catch the pillow Leona throws at you in the nick of time, and you feel yourself get riled up.

"Leona! What the hell-!"

"That's not what I asked!" He yells back, fangs showing in the light, "Quit avoiding the question!"

You are ready to yell at him back, getting worked up, ready to fight him if things were going that route, but then you stop. You see him fully in the afternoon sunlight. You are so used to his perpetual confidence, squared shoulders and leisurely stares that he stands out now. His ears are folded back in submission, his glare angry but his shoulders hunched. His tail is swishing back and forth, energetic and skittish and you realize. He is _embarrassed._

Leona was _shy_ right now.

The first instinct is to laugh at him. To point out to him how he's somehow turned into a meek kitten, to tease him relentlessly and get some pride back for yourself. But you don't, because you also know that if you do this, you probably won't get to see this again. That this was a rare event to stumble on, like a miracle in a jungle, and so you tread carefully. You do not think before you speak; you just do.

"You said," you hear yourself saying, "You said I must think I'm some kind of lone wolf. But I'm not."

He watches you for a moment, an ear twitching, still momentum ready to pounce. He is also watching you carefully.

"...Oh?"

"In the slums," you explain, "You're never really alone."

These are awkward first steps you take. You stumble, here and there. You're not really sure what's happening right now, but you just keep going forward, groping blindly in the dark for some sense of the world.

It's a strange and indulgent feeling to talk about yourself. Like, you are used to being shoved into the dark that you aren't really sure what to do when forced into the light. But also, it's nice to be heard. You know plenty of types who love to talk about themselves and you can't help but feel embarrassed for them, but you're getting an idea of why people do this. To be seen, and known, to share things that you know others want. You keep waiting for Leona to lose interest, bored rich kid who realizes the consequences of his whims, but he doesn't. He won't.

This is not to say Leona is a saint, however. He has _never_ been a saint. He peppers in his own commentary here and there. When you show him a picture of your house, he laughs.

"What is this?" He asks, "A dog house?"

You punch him in the arm, but he just laughs. And you appreciate his honesty. You realize that if he had said something fake and sympathetic you would hate him more. He is not kind and he is not gentle, but brutal honesty that sees the world for what it is. You prefer that more than anything soft and sweet, that turns a blind eye to the awkward state of your life, making excuses about how things are better than what they seemed.

Somehow, it turns into a conversation, trading facts and opinions. The laundry is forgotten, and without realizing you find yourself leaning against the foot of his bed, sitting on the floor, your arms crossed and cushioned on the surface. You watch him continue his play, watch him move and remove chess pieces until he starts the game all over again. You don’t make sense of it, but it’s nice to watch, somehow comforting to see someone act when they know what they are doing. His self-assuredness, his calculations, are soothing. His attention is half on the board, and half on your conversation. He is so terribly removed from reality that you like the things that shock him, and like more when he agrees with you. You call him 'sheltered' and 'delicate' and he sneers at you. He gets you to laugh, at his expense maybe, but you laugh. When the air is soft enough, your awkwardness settles in again, and it's because neither of you are used to this. You make some weak excuse on how you have homework to finish, that his chores are done and you should get going. You forget you are supposed to be mad, but you're so shaken by something as sweet as this that you don't even feel mad anymore. You're not happy, but you're also not feeling sorry for yourself. You are just in that weird crux of being humbled by a good experience, something you are not used to but have wanted for so long without realizing you did.

He watches you, but calls your name just as your hand touches the doorknob.

"Ruggie."

Your heart skips. You look back, and try to fake indifference.

"You laugh a lot, don't you?"

Something stabs in your chest. You prepare yourself for what you had been waiting for, and smile lazily at him.

"Yeah, and? Does it annoy you?"

Leona blinks. You are waiting for the blow, for the kick back into reality. Setting the record straight on where he stands and how you are below him. Don't get ahead of yourself; just one nice conversation isn't going to change anything. He knows what you are, who you are, and you should never forget that.

But then he looks away. He smiles, cocky and gentle.

"No. I was just thinking," he mentions, "It’s not bad."

It's like the world stops. And you want to curse at him. You want to tell him to fuck off. That you don't care and you don't need his approval and don't tell me shit like that _don't you dare._

But instead, walking back to your room, it just repeats over and over again in your heart, like it was a spell, a dream, and it won't stop.

And oh my god.

Oh my god.

_You are so fucking stupid._

* * *

Nothing grows immediately, and definitely nothing soft hearted grows. It's _something_ sure but nothing kind or tender. You are detest to call it a crush or love, but you're also well aware enough to know something is happening. But you have been in love before, had your schoolyard crushes and brief sparks, and so you know this is not that. Thank god, you think. How clichéd would that be? Poor hyena from the slums throws himself into the arms of the turbulent rebellious prince. It makes you want to wretch.

But it's something. You know it's symptoms but not it's diagnosis. You begin to take notice of the small things: glances here and there. Comments pointed your way. Like studying a textbook and highlighting the passages you will need to know later. You gather these things, pay attention to them like they mean something. You are mortified to realize it's not that you are on guard but instead _want_ these things. It's nice to be noticed, to be seen. It's nice to be in someone's spotlight. And maybe there's a small feeling of pride knowing you caught his eye, and have earned his attention. Does this make you weak? To need his approval? Or have you bested him somehow by making the mighty Leona Kingscholar look your way?

You don't know. You can't tell. But you cannot deny that childish thrill when you make him laugh, when he makes his playful jabs at you, when you both rant like hardened criminals about the stupid things in this world. 

You will call it attraction maybe. You can miscatergorize it as admiration. But you refuse to confide any of this in him, out of both pride and fear. Admitting to it is admitting weakness. Admitting to it is disappointing yourself.

Still you are a greedy sort, and so when you see things you want your hands get a mind of their own. You have this strange idea of the world and its scales, justifying all your wrong actions with your rough place in life. You see no reason _not_ to be a thief when the world stole from you first. Eye for an eye. Overdue payment.

You chase him, in your own way.

Funny thing is, you don't _intend_ to. You're just impatient. You are running on fumes, and want relief, are feeling mischievous. Your schedule is always packed full with part time gigs and hustles, along with the club practice, the chores, your school work. You find your convenient shortcuts where you can, always try to rig the system whenever you spot a loophole. But most of the time you are just comforted with the thought you are young, your body is able, and you can push it further then a lot of other people can say. If your hands can move and your legs can run, you have always known there will be a way to make money.

(Your grandmother's car has broken down. She's having to walk six miles to the grocers, and has to walk six miles back. If you time yourself right, you can help pay for the repairs by Tuesday with all your earned paychecks.)

You come to drop off his lunch in the botanical garden as always, and as soon as he sees you, he knows.

"When was the last time you slept?"

You roll your eyes at him. You are almost tempted to ask him the same thing because he looks so cozy in his little patch of sunlight. He's always hiding away here, content to sleep his days and classes away.

"Enough." You wave him off, unpacking the bag from Sam's shop, "Hey I got myself something too, is that okay?"

"I don't know why you bother asking at this point. You know I don't care."

"Ahh, it must be nice for you, Leona." You snark at him, "Wish I could just throw around money like you do, get to sleep as much as I want."

He is lying back, staring at the ceiling, his hands behind his head. He is the picture of comfort, sleepy eyes and relaxed if bored demeanor. He glances at you.

"...So you're not sleeping enough. I was right."

You make a face at him.

" _Oh no_ , you caught me." You mock him, laughing, "So what? _Some_ of us have to work around here, you know."

You take a bite of a chocolate frosted donut, lick the glaze off your fingers. You are grateful for Night Raven College not just for the magic, but also because the food is always fresh. Well, maybe not fresh per se, but not rotten. Not stale. It's very rare you can get food like that outside of this school. The sweet is soft in your mouth and you savor that privilege. 

"Ruggie." Leona finally says, stolid voice against your teasing, "Lay down next to me."

You nearly choke. You look at him, confused, wondering if this is another bad joke.

(You are secretly thrilled and there's that _something_ again.) 

"What?"

"Take a nap. You need it."

He has a way of saying these things that are less offerings and more orders. There's no kindness to him, he just says this like some tired babysitter.

"Why?"

"Don't get stubborn with me." Leona just says curtly, frowning, "What, you'd rather fall asleep in class and let Trein give you hell? Lay back."

"Why do you care?"

He says nothing. It goes on long enough that the silence makes you embarrassed. He is noticeably unemotional processing this too, and the botanical garden is bright, warm and soothing. The place always smells like rich earth, like freshly watered plants. It feels familiar to you and you wonder if that's why Leona likes it here more than any other place on campus. He does not answer you. Instead he looks back at you, and narrows his gaze. He looks fed up, as if saying in some way _you only have yourself to blame._

He is fast; he reaches for you and you yelp as he grabs your jacket lapels and drags you down. The grass is soft and it's smell invades your senses. It feels homey, but you just glare at him, red-faced.

"Leona-!"

"Hush." He sighs, irritated, "You really gotta fight me on everything? What did I tell you about trying to be a lone wolf?"

You pout at him, but know he's right. Know that your stubbornness won't win out against his. Prideful bastard.

"Just be quiet." He closes his eyes, readjusting himself into his previous position, "And let me sleep."

You lay there, stare at the ceiling in awake defiance and defeat. You feel something simmering in you and you wonder what to call that. It's not anger; you would be more fiery if you were angry. Instead it's like there's butterflies in your stomach and you feel on edge, like you need to be on guard. Laying there next to him, you try to push that feeling aside, try to turn it around to benefit you. 

You see the world with a strange set of scales and feel unfairly paid at this moment. At his mercy, somehow. You decide to take that back somehow, in your own way.

You take another bite of your food, thankfully spared during the fall, and his ears perk up at the sound. He furrows his brow, eyes still closed. You wonder if there is a way to eat with attitude, like in a way that wordlessly said 'fuck you, I'm hungry'. You hope you are doing that because otherwise you would feel quite silly.

"That's not sleeping."

"I got a shift later tonight," You tell him, "That alchemy homework to finish. Your stupid late night snack to buy. If you wanna get after me then pick up some of my weight."

You think he will snap at you again, but instead a low rumble of a chuckle fills the space.

"You still haven't caught up with your alchemy class?" He asks, incredulous. The spark lights again, and you glare at him. 

"Don't."

"You were complaining about it yesterday too. It's not that hard."

"I don't wanna hear this from someone who sleeps through his classes."

"I've already taken those classes," He waves you off, "It's harder to stay awake during them."

You polish off the donut, savoring even the crumbs, simmering mood notwithstanding. 

"If you keep that up you'll be held back again." You scold him, knowing this falls on deaf ears. You wonder what _is_ the point of getting after him like this, but you find it even harder to resist the urge to. It's like that pay again, settling the scores. Making sure he knew you weren't some simpering lackey, but that you liked the sound of your own voice and he should get used to it. Or maybe, it's just knowing he wouldn't do anything about it.

You guess you could also call it 'worry' but just the thought makes you want to cackle like a madman.

"Then I get held back," He auditorily seems to shrug, "What are you, my mom?"

You look up at the roof, a blindingly blue sky visible through the windows. It's like it's caged, you think to yourself, out of reach but contained. Soft white clouds roll by, lazy like cat's gait. If you strain to listen, you can catch the sound of talking, footsteps in the hallways. Outside, a loud laughter softly erupts, friends joking during lunch. And it nags on you so much, your indifference losing out to curiosity, that you do not regret asking it.

"Hey, what about your brother?"

It is only apparent on a perceived level, but Leona bristles at this. It is not in his movement, or his stance or the way he holds himself. Instead you feel as if you know this because you have grown to know him so well. And that strikes you too, making you stop: you are now guessing things about him because you have been here so long. You wonder if being right will be a blessing or an embarrassment. Leona seems to play it cool though; getting worked up or defensive is a weakness. And it takes effort.

"What about him?"

"Wouldn't he get mad if you got held back again?"

Leona scoffs, and the sound seems to scrape against your tension.

"Probably." He says simply, finally, laying down an invisible barrier telling you to stop here. You ignore it

(Wandering hands have a mind of their own.)

"What's he like?"

"Huh?"

"Your brother." You clarify, and you suddenly feel very separate from yourself, intangible except for a voice, "You never told me."

A very weighty silence settles in. You suppose you could come up with excuses right now for you two, but then you realize what a stupid thing that would be. Giving him an out, and a reason to tease you. You will not analyze it; you, Ruggie Bucchi, are not the type to plan your moves ahead. You have never been a king; you have always been the pawn. And while on the surface, we can decry this, in its own ways you have your benefits. Ready to take action, fearless in face of obstacles. Flexible. Purposeful. Persistent and steady. You don't wonder _why_ you asked; similarly you don't wonder how he will think of you. 

Honestly, you do not care. You _want_ things, Ruggie, you _want_ things from Leona, and you would wrestle things out of a lion's jaw when you want things.

Another scoff. Scraping against your nerves.

"Noisy." Leona tells you, finally, and it's bare bones answer irritates you.

"That's it?"

"Farena's noisy." Leona shrugs again, "You've heard him before."

You blink.

"...What about his wife?" You ask again, "Your sister-in-law?"

"Noisier."

"Leona don't be a smartass."

"I'm not." He sighs, "What do you care? There's not much to say about them."

"You never tell me about your family."

"Like I said," he reiterates, voice a little hard here, "there's not much to say."

You think that's bullshit. Facing walls put up begins to grate on you. Once again, you do not think about this. Instead you are pacing those walls, trying to find some weakness in the barrier.

"I'm just saying, it's not fair. I told you about where I grew up." You frown, turning your head to look at him, "But you never tell me about the palace."

He seems angry now, bothered in a feather light sense. You realize you are probably disturbing his nap and that has a nice taste to it; he takes so many in the days you don't see what's wrong taking one or two away from him. Leona finally opens his eyes and looks at you. His eyes have a pleasant glaze of sleepiness to them, green and soft.

"...It's not that simple." He says, oddly gently, and it makes your heart stop. Bastard. Just pulling shit like that out of nowhere. You don't let yourself be charmed by it.

"Bullshit. C'mon, I bet you're dying to brag about it," You grin at him, "Nice place to live, getting whatever you want whenever you want it. Wish I was so lucky."

Your cheerful coaxing falls flat in the air, and you realize the brighter you got the more Leona seems to whither. He looks away from you, and he's narrowed his gaze like he's been stung by something. He is struggling with something below the surface, and he wears his heart on his sleeve but is silent. It's new to you, but because of that you chase it. Blood in the air. Prey that is stumbling. You're on the right track.

"...You don't know anything." He tells you, sullen. And you laugh.

"Yeah, that's why I'm asking."

"I hate it there." He tells you, and then turns away, turning his back to you, "You really don't know anything."

You are speechless. You had been running, but now you are stunned when finally given the last struggling fight.

'Hate' seems to be a very powerful word. You, of course, consider that he is using it carelessly, throwing around strong accusations for the sake of attention. But, again, you know Leona now, his ticks, his habits, the way he speaks, the messages he imparts through gestures and words. You know Leona, half-attached to the waking world, blithely considers even annoying things with a growl and a threat. But something is dim here, lost, and you suddenly feel as if you have hurt him in a way you did not intend.

You remember, a long long time ago, a story your grandmother told you. A fairytale. About a box that contained all the world's chaos, a girl who opened it carelessly. You wonder if this is that; that prying facts out of him will release something new between you two. Something you cannot put back. Is satisfying the curiosity worth it? You keep coming at these cliff edges with him, toeing the line, wondering when and if to jump. Do you care? Does it matter?

_This kingdom would turn to sand._

Something is still sitting in your chest though, hunger and want. That special, little _something._ Your greedy, little wandering hands. Ruggie Bucchi you do not think. You act.

He loves that about you.

You don't know this yet, but this is when he will find out he loves that about you.

"Oh, _please_ ," You laugh at him, cruel, "You're such a gloomy guy!"

" _Huh?"_

You sit up, and you catch his attention again. It's so damn bright in there, suddenly the warmth of it strangling you. You push forth, stubbornly wanting to be heard and to hurt. 

"Do you have any idea how many people would kill to be in your position?" You ask him, incredulous, "Just get to lay around, no responsibilities, everything paid for. You're so _damn_ lucky, Leona."

He does not hesitate; Leona laughs loudly at you, vicious, and angry.

"Just by saying that I know you don't know anything."

"So?" You shoot back, "Maybe I don't! It doesn't change anything!"

Something bubbles forth in you, like a fresh spring. He is looking up at you tiredly, annoyed to be misinterpreted, and it spurs you on. You spread your arms wide, and you feel the familiar weight of his blazer, heavy and mismatched on your shoulders.

"Nothing satisfies you." You scoff, hands falling to your side in defeat, "It's never good enough for you. I know how you're like. And you're such a brat, Leona."

It burns when it leaves your mouth, fire on your tongue, but you do not feel sorry for any of it. It's strange; you always get after him, settling the score between you two but now it feels very honest. Very pure. Not concern, but your own frustrations, investments laid clear on the table.

You know he won't, but you still get that knee-jerk feeling that he will punch you now. Maybe you want him to. Like it will force his own hand on the table too. You don't plan much, but you do know what actions mean. You've never been good at reading between lines; you like honest people more because you feel more in control. Instead Leona keeps studying you, keeping you on the edge. He smiles, very slick.

Sad. Again.

(Stop doing that.)

He reaches for you and you flinch, but the world is upended before you know it. You do not say anything this time, almost like you knew this was coming. He pulls you down, and you hit grass, verdant earth, but this time he leaves his arm across your chest.

Warm.

Your breath stops.

"You really don't let up." He chuckles, voice husky, unhurt by your words. You blink, and you keep waiting for him to move. He does not.

"I'm just telling the truth." You say, but your voice feels very far away.

"So you're saying I'm ungrateful."

A bird chirps somewhere. The world feels like it's holding its breath too.

"Yeah. I'm not wrong."

"I guess not."

You can feel your chest rise and fall under his arm. Pressure against pressure. You want to keep bickering with him, but it's like your mind has gone completely blank.

"Leona," You say to the botanical garden, to the air, "why do you hate the palace?"

Hand on the box lid. Like electricity in your veins. Leona is laying on his side now, looking at you, and you meet that gaze. He looks away first, furtive, like a caged and anxious animal. 

"Why were you arguing with your brother that one time?" You continue, "You never tell me anything."

He stays quiet. You are not thinking. You don't want to think. Instead you feel on the edge of something very nice, very beautiful, and you want it. You know it's just the singling out again, craving something to make you stand out, something from him for you. Just you.

Greedy little you.

"Does it matter?" He tells you, "In the end you'll just say I'm being spoiled, right?"

"That's right." You confirm for him, "I just want a good reason to tell you that."

He chuckles, and it makes you grin. It all feels so tentative, silent steps taken together, wary of a situation and what it means. You want him to spill things to you just as much as you want him not to. You keep breathing, weighed down by him. And it begins to feel comfortable, cozy. Are you being held down? Are you being protected? You cannot decide what this is, and you realize your thoughts are spinning because you are starting to feel drowsy. It's so damn warm there; sleeping in the grass reminded you of home, the earthy scents of the savannah. How it feels like to sleep next to someone else. And you wonder if there's something biological in that; the comfort of a person's warmth compared to the warmth of the weather. Do people just instinctually find that preferable? Is that why you're drifting? A minute passes, and you try to press for it before you lose yourself.

"...You're not gonna answer me?"

"There's no point." He mumbles, and his eyes are closed now, and he sighs, like a tired rumble, "Just hurry up and go to sleep."

Irritating. Box lid slammed shut, almost getting your fingers. That's not fair. You feel just as vulnerable as you do empowered. You feel steady there, together and yet forgotten somehow. You're not sure what you want, but you can tell that you still haven't gotten it yet.

And yet it's so peaceful there. Your eyelids are too heavy, and you lose the fight. You dream of nothing, which just shows how well you sleep. The weight of him on you is like a relaxing safety, a sign but nothing said. You want this. You want this much at least, if you could not get what you wanted.

The school bell is what wakes you up.

You bolt upright, acutely aware of your surroundings and the time. It takes you a few seconds to get your bearings, but what you notice first is that you're alone.

You're alone.

You breathe fast, and scramble to check your phone. You curse; you are going to be late for class. The space next to you is bare, and it feels so strange. The thought takes a while to settle on to you, but when it does you feel oddly empty.

Leona left without you.

At first, running to class, you mentally cuss him out. Could've at least woken me up. Didn't have to leave me like this. He's probably back in class, lazy guy like that, all of it wasted on him. And the rest comes as you are scolded by Trein, hearing the snickering of your classmates, enduring the attention but suffering at realization.

It's like, you had him so close, but could not keep him. Like you were given something, and then had it snatched away. You feel so close, and yet so far. It's frustrating. Something, but not enough. Like you were only given crumbs. Why is it that you keep giving to him, but feel so aggravated when you get nothing in return?

Why do you want anything in the first place?

Your heart aches the entire afternoon, thinking back at the botanical garden, the smell of grass and the pure warmth of sunlight. Him, next to you. Allowing you a peek, but then shutting the box on you. It sits so heavy in your chest, realizing how much you enjoyed that moment. How you wanted more, but still didn't get enough.

You feel hungry.

You hate feeling hungry.


	4. Rich Fuckin' Tastes

If anyone were to think you get more aggressive in your chase after this they have seriously underestimated just how highly you hold your pride compared to your hunger. You would rather starve than beg for scraps. Anytime you chase your meals, you always have to have some upper hand, an excuse, a stronghold on the situation. You will not show your belly to anyone in reward of being fed. You work for your food. You work for the satisfaction of reward.

However, you also twist this around. Showing tenderness to Leona, hinting that you are unsatisfied with the emptiness of your relationship, is just the same as begging. So you turn up your nose. You change, and ask, nothing.

(You're a no good brat, Ruggie, but if anyone told you this you'd grin at them, showing off your fangs.)

But you are also sorely mistaken in thinking this was your own problem, like you were the only one sick with something lacking in your heart. Leona acts like the world belongs to him, _should_ belong to him, and soon enough you become a part of this selfish hunt. It takes you entirely too long to notice because you suffer from wounded self esteem, the critical awareness of your place in the world. Royal lion from the Afterglow Savannah settling for the meat of flea-bitten hyena? As if.

You brat. You idiot.

Looking back, you're not quite sure what did it. He will tell you long after, in between bed sheets and whispered on your bare shoulder, why it's you and can _only_ be you. But what you still don't know is what kicked him off. Maybe it's because you were nosey and took no bullshit from him. Maybe it's the way you look, and talk. Or perhaps even he was bored.

He may even just like the way you run from him.

(In the future you will tell him a million and one reasons why it shouldn't be you and he will tell you to shut up with his lips and hands and he'll win the argument. He always does.)

Something sparks on the magifit field one day. You both work incredibly well together when it comes to bossing around people, getting them to listen, making a team. Savanaclaw has always been known for its athletics and Leona harnesses that and you help follow through. He's all ideas and strategies, and you're close enough to the rest of your dorm members that you convince them to follow. The school competition is coming up. Last year Savanaclaw suffered a defeat at the hands of Diasmonia. But Leona promises this year things will be different. High-powered guys like that won't know what's hit them. And how sweet is victory, reclaiming a fallen crown compared to being given it? He's good at hyping up people, and you're good at getting on their level. Rocky beginnings notwithstanding, you find a family in Savanaclaw.

Besides the rest of the school is full of cutthroats and princes, a place like this is more your style.

So practice is in high swing as always, but also money is tight this month. You put your all in magifit, agile on a broom, merciless but true, but also your body is being pushed to its limits. Your usual avenues have not dried up, but fate has decided the worst time to turn on you. Repairs for back home. Medical bills. Your grandmother is getting suspicious: hey, with everything you're sending, are you eating enough? And then you remember her shaking hands again, rainy days, and you swear up and down: of course you are. Why would I lie? It's no more than usual anyway.

You've been here before; if you time yourself right, you can skip lunch. If you eat the right things you won't even notice the hunger pangs at night. Just eat enough at breakfast and you can keep yourself alive the rest of the day. But also you're stupid; you don't change anything else. You don't tell anyone because you're prideful and you think you know what you're doing.

Halfway through practice, barely dodging a disc headed to the goal behind you, you feel light headed. Your hands get a mind of their own, shaking, weak, and you lose grip. You fall off your broom, and you hear the exclamations, the yells, like they're far away.

( _Cracked your head during practice_ , you swear you can hear your grandma deride when you get sent back home, _foolish boy_.)

Before you hit ground, head dizzy and vision failing, you wonder how you'll pay the medical bills.

It's only a few seconds. You hear low whistling first, and then you feel yourself jerked upwards, caught in something, and it jolts your heart awake. You feel like you've been tossed up, like a cat playing with something it's caught, and the wind rushes past you, cold. The sky is full blue above you, vast and breathtaking. You feel weightless, almost. Free of gravity. And then the rest comes into view, his hair first falling back into place, his braids framing his face. He is fierce, teeth bared, and breathing hard. He looks frightened.

How weird, you think dreamily. You've never seen him scared.

"Ruggie!" You hear another dorm mate yell, rushing over, breaking you out of your trance. You are popular; it's shown by how many people come to make sure you're okay. In quick time, you embarrassingly realize Leona is holding you like you're his bride, standing on his broom. How lame, you think sulkily. You try to laugh it off to everyone, say you're fine, _you're fine._ You make a gesture to Leona to let you down, but he's still stone-faced, rigid with something sad and cautious. He sighs heavily.

"Did you eat today?" He asks pointedly, and instinctually your ears go back. Damn, he's sharp.

"O-of course." You half-lie.

" _When?"_

God, he's gotta put you on the spot, huh? Gotta make you look stupid in more ways then one. You look away, feeling cushioned in his arms, but also weakened.

"...This morning."

He sighs, very loudly. It makes you want to disappear. A flurry of concerns and jabs come from the other dorm members. They all seem to say what Leona's thinking: that's no good. Hey, don't be stupid. At least say something? Leona ignores all of them, and he just looks away again, sighing. You briefly wonder what will happen now; probably make you walk to the infirmary by yourself, like some weird walk of shame or something. But he surprises all of you.

"Everyone get back to practice." Leona announces, "I'm taking him to the infirmary."

You immediately flush. If there was any other protest, you can't remember. You're fairly sure no one would go against the dorm leader's decision anyway. He floats down easily, and steps off the broom like stepping down steps. He holds you steady the whole time, and you feel so defenseless there, that you can't calm the heat on your cheeks. It takes you awhile to get your bearings, faint-headed and mortified.

"Leona!" You finally hiss at him as he walks back into the dorm, "I can walk myself!"

"I don't wanna hear that from someone who nearly cracked his head open on my field."

"Oh, so _sorry_ , your Highness," You roll your eyes, "I almost _died_ in front of you."

He begins to growl, frowning deeply. "Ruggie, quit being stubborn. If you weren't eating, tell me."

"It's got nothing to do with you."

"It does if you're gonna stop practice like this."

You wish you had more strength so you could struggle out of his grip. Self-entitled prick. Gotta always be thinking of himself. Had the bed-side manner of a drunk warthog. You decide, fuck it. Bad enough you had to look like that in front of everyone. Just as you pass through the mirror back to the school, travel down the hallways, you fight him.

"Let me down."

"No."

You shove at his face first, and he looks briefly shocked, taking him off guard.

"Ruggie!"

"I said let me down! I can walk!"

A deep growl, his fangs shining in afternoon sunlight.

"You're so fucking annoying!"

"If I'm so annoying then let me go already!"

"Would you just-!"

You are practically begging for him to tear you to shreds, but you can't help yourself. It's all so stupid. You skirmish for a bit, feeling like you are saving some part of yourself. Even if you fell on the floor like some struggling cat, you'd prefer that to being seen like this.

And then he just embraces you.

And your breath just stops. 

You can't tell what it is first. At first you try to make it entirely mundane, nothing more than the consequence of your fall, like your mind went blank from hunger and shock. You try to think of it as just the sudden surprise of movement, but then it stays. Your heart won't stop pounding. It's your body heat against his, and very strongly you catch the scent of him, sweat and grass, and it's like someone splashed cold water on you, jolting you awake. You are acutely aware of everything around you, the warmth and feel of him pressed against you. He is holding you at an even more awkward angle now, more intimate, and your chest is entirely pressed against his shoulder, your face forced into the crook of his neck. His strong hands hold you firmly, one placed flat and protective against your back and one gripping the outside of your upper thigh.

_Oh my god._

It takes you a moment to process the low rumbling you hear, and you realize he's still growling, deep in his throat. 

"There." He orders you, voice low and husky, " _Stay._ "

You get the sudden urge to smack his head as much as you want to bury your face further into him. Your mind is still blank, and so you don't actually say anything. You don't do anything either. Instead you are so frozen in place by the sudden closeness. You can tell he's still carrying you, and your mind is buzzing with exhaustion and energy, like you're jittery with uncertainty. His hair tickles your nose, softer than you thought it would be.

And it's not like it comes out of nowhere. It's been there this whole time, it's just now that you're seeing what it was. That _something._ You are not so shocked by the arrival of it, but rather the truth. You put a name to what this had all been, your pent up energy, your selfish curiosity, the need for attention. Being held like this by him was like the last piece to your puzzle and your stomach bursts into butterflies.

It feels so damn _nice_ being held by him.

You try to compare it; the thrill of battle. The adrenaline of a match. That fun, little 'fuck-you' feeling you got when you ran off with someone's wallet. Heart pounding. Breathtaking. Satisfaction of a job well done. You, in the spotlight, superior and cool, and like you meant something. Like you were _enough._

Oh, hell. Oh _fuck._

Your face flushes, despite yourself and you're so damn grateful he can't see your face. You berate yourself first; _seriously_? Gotta fuck up a good opportunity by going for _him_? You wonder where your sense of taste was, like how your standards were so low. You very quickly, and childishly, try to come up with reasons not to like him: Lazy. Selfish. Can't do his own damn work. Complains all the damn time. But it's not enough, of course not. In quick succession, you see that of course it would have gone this far. He hits all your buttons: broad shoulders. Tall. Undeniable self-confidence paired with a sharp tongue. That hair you were resisting every urge to just run your hands through now. Of course Leona's hot. Of course you think he's incredibly good looking. And the both of you have already drawn your lines in the sand, clearly stated where you stood in the way of things. It's so easy and so tempting, and so you can see clearly just how you got yourself into this situation. No strings attached and all hunger. You had thought you had it all figured out but you forgot that irrational need inside of you, that irritation called _desire,_ and you are mortified at the revelation.

It's like hitting a vein of water, and the thoughts geyser out. Heat, and voices, and touches here and there, light and electric all at once. You are hyper-focused on the feel of his hand on your thigh, dazed at the scent of his hair, getting a taste but still starving. _Not enough_ , a part of you cries out, _this isn't good enough for me_. You simultaneously scold yourself for being a horny idiot, and unsatisfied at being held back from what you want. But you get a handle of yourself; you turn your head away from his shoulder, and your vision still feels blurry. Your stomach aches from its emptiness. You are a hollowed-out existence now and it feels like a bitter reminder as much as a sobering reality.

As soon as you lift yourself up from seeing what you want, you quickly strike yourself down with the truth. Who are you kidding? You and Leona? You're sure if you confessed anything to him, he'd laugh in your face and he'd have every right. Some mangy hyena begging him to bed them? What a sad sight. What a sad thought. You're fairly certain, for all his good looks and bad boy ways, you have not been the only one. You are also certain you would not be one of the rare successful. And _as if_ you would stoop to such a level as to ask anything so awkward and so stupid. No, for all your want and libido, you know better than to set yourself up for failure. It's nice to dream, but you make sure never to dream for long. There are goals, attainable through hard work and perseverance, and there are wishes. Nice things to daydream about. Something to entertain you in the hopeless moments. But nothing more than dreams, not possible in this life at least.

You, of course, fruitlessly try to tell yourself this. But your heart, just as stubborn as you are, is still pounding like crazy from the proximity, longing for more. Lips on your neck. Hands to know you. His bed at your back, and you teasing him through the whole thing.

You know, for certain, you would tease him through the entire thing and he would love it.

"Leona…"

"What?"

He says this impatiently, and you are brought back to the moment. You forget your previous skirmish, now filled with nothing but shame and want. It's so weird how people can be so close and so distant at the same time. Feels poetic, but instead you just feel like shit.

You want to ask him to kiss you.

You feel like, if you just got one good kiss, that could help end this whole thing. That if you got one bit of satisfaction, that could quell all your cravings. Your desire sated, this whole embarrassing thing left behind you. You've done the same thing before with hard-won sweets and momentary luxuries. I'll just savor this, and let this one moment sustain me. I'll never have this again, so I will just ration myself with one good memory.

Just one kiss, you think, pathetically, beautifully. Just one sweet kiss.

But you're not stupid. Thankfully, terribly, you are not stupid.

"Let me go." You instead ask again, but this time your voice is softer, a bare whisper. You are late to realize the heat of your breath must brush against his neck, and feel him shiver.

He's slow. You wonder if at first he is ignoring you. But then he surprises you, metaphorically swipes at you, with a low rumbling laugh. You feel his hands press into you further, and you’re not sure if that's intimidation or your own delusions being made real. 

“You should be honored,” He tells you, “that I’m carrying you like this in the first place. Aren’t I being a _proper_ dorm leader?”

He’s mocking you, and it makes your whole face get hot. You feel a strange little electric shock in your stomach, and you want to call him out but you feel like you're floating as much as you feel like you could die. Instead you shut your eyes, angry at him and yourself and the fickle nature of one’s heart.

 _Goddamit Leona,_ you swear at him wordlessly, _just kiss me already and end this._

* * *

You have always been like this.

One hot afternoon, when you were seven? Eight? Hell, if you remember. But one hot afternoon you had been at the watering hole with your grandmother. It must have been summer but it's hard to tell in the Afterglow Savannah. You weren't thinking about homework though; instead you had that wide expanse of free time your grandmother decided to take from you whenever she saw fit. You remember that afternoon, because you remember that routine. Lugging the laundry baskets to the lake, helping her scrub it all until both your hands were red and raw. She used to get after you if you got lazy and dragged it behind you, scraping the bottom of the laundry basket against the dry earth. Don't half-ass it, she warned you, then we'll have to spend more money to buy a new one. You would pout about this, and grumble, but as you got older you understood.

You remember watching the dragonflies flit across the surface, watching all the other people from your neighborhood doing the same thing. The air smelled like hot clay and cheap laundry detergent. She was gossiping with some of the women from the slums, and all the conversation seemed so boring to a kid like you. Prices, and finances, and doctors appointments and other boring adult things. Your ears flicked, the heat suffocating, the boredom even more so. You daydreamed about doing more fun things, wanted to be back home watching cartoons, playing with the kids from your neighborhood. Back in that day, if you finished your chores early your grandmother would let you loose into nature, let you occupy your time as you saw fit until the evening. But laundry day is different, you think insufferably. Whole family affair. Excruciating.

You hear familiar noise approaching from the road that leads to the lake, and your ears perk up. A few more mothers and their families arrive. They call to your grandmother and she greets them back. That part you don't care about; what you notice is your friends, here to save you from the torture of a long afternoon. You all catch up, all meaningless chatter and conversation. You declare you are hungry and suddenly all the kids agree they are too. You all pester your guardians who have begun setting up work, if you can get something to eat. Obviously, no one has money, and no money for hungry kids. They tell you to go pick water berries; just follow the river up a ways and pick some from the bushes. You hate picking water berries. It's not as if any of you haven't done it before, it's just the lesser option compared to going to the store and buying junk food. But the guardians stick to their guns, and you kids have no choice. Your little pack decides to make their trip, and leave with all the mothers telling you the same thing: don't wander off! Come straight back! And remember to share!

The complaints die down as soon as none of you have the audience; then your chatter just resumes as normal as you all make the trek. There must be six of you, a mix of various ages, one of you even carrying her baby brother on her back. You're all catching up on how the summer is going, talking like kids do, picking on each other and changing topic as fast as your attention span can manage. You're thinking about how much you hate water berries; it's not the fruit so much as how it's never satisfying. They're so small and the animals around here always get to them first. There's never enough for all of you, so even though everyone is fed you're never satisfied. It tastes fine enough, but it's like settling for second best. You hate water berries. To distract yourself, you start to whistle a random tune. In short time, everyone catches on, and one of the more creative of you begin to make up a song:

_We're going to go pick some fruit_

_We're going to go pick some fruit_

_Do you want to come with us?_

_Do you want to come with us?_

It's simple enough, and that's why you all join in. Just a pack of hyena cubs, walking alongside the river, singing a song out of tune and making the most out of a hot afternoon. No one adds any more lyrics to the song, but one of the more braver of you, grinning and mischievous, runs in front of the group and changes the words:

_We're going to go pick some fruit_

_And my feet fucking hurt!_

You all burst into childish cackling, thrilled at the scandalous swear word, rebellious without supervision. Suddenly that's all anyone is saying: _my feet fucking hurt! My feet fucking hurt!_ You're not even complaining as much as you all find the cuss word funny. The song has degenerated into vulgarity and it all tickles you so much, your cheeks start to hurt from laughing so much.

Eventually you all finally come upon the bushes and your suspicions are right; there is barely any left after nature has had its fill. You all get to picking, but you already know how this is going to play out. You will get maybe four or five, starve until dinner that night. You are the first one to see it across the river, but when you do it's like the universe had smiled upon you.

It's the bright red that catches your eye first. Across the river you see the nicer houses, the nicer neighborhood. You have passed by it countless times before, wondered at the size of the buildings, the gardens, with the rest of your friends. You all gaped at the luxuries other people could afford. They all had stone walls around their estates and at that age you already know why and already know your place. But you see it peeking above the fence, almost like a beckoning hand. A tree with bright red fruit. It takes you a moment to realize what it is: pomegranates.

You look in wonder. There must be a dozen on that tree! A thousand! And they haven't even picked them? What a waste, you think disgusted. How come the more money you have the more wasteful you are? You are envious, and your mouth is watering. You are suddenly filled with nothing but the thought of eating those pomegranates. If it had been your tree you would pick it everyday you think. You would share the fruit with everyone. And if you had extra, think how much you could sell at the market. You wonder what is the point of having a pomegranate tree if you weren't going to eat from it. Your friends have seemed to fade in the background, everyone spilling their catch together, separating it to equal servings. But you will not settle for this. Your hands are itchy with energy and you make way across the river.

"Ruggie!" One of the boys calls out to you like you're stupid, "Where are you _going_?"

The river is a bare trickle in the summer, and so you skip over stones to make way across it. Wet mud clings to your threadbare sandals but you just shake it off when you get to the other side. The pack keeps pestering you: hey idiot! Don't wander off! You yell back to them to shut up! Look! You point at the tree and their eyes shine in recognition. Soon enough you can hear them scramble to join you on the other side. Still they pepper you with questions. What are you planning? Are you gonna pick them? You're gonna get caught, one sing-songs but you tell them to shut up again. You all gather around the edge of the stone wall and look up. You are already cooking up a scheme, but the rest just look in defeat.

"You can't climb that." A girl points out, "There's no trees nearby."

"All of you give me a boost."

"We're not tall enough, dumbass."

"I got an idea."

You have known you had the gift for magic for a few months now. The first time had been a surprise when you were washing the dishes, dropped a mug, and in desperation got it to float before it hit the floor. Your grandmother, preparing dinner, had looked at you with wide eyes, her ears alert, a heavy tense silence in the air. At first you had thought you had done something bad, and near tears, lost control. The mug had hit the ground in a shatter of glass, but you were not scolded. Instead she held you, holding her breath, saying it was okay with shaky pride. Sometimes you wonder if there was fear in that too.

It is still this wild, untamed part of you but that didn't mean you knew to hold back. Of course you didn't. You still think you are invincible. You get everyone to help you because they know you will get plenty of fruit for them too. With their combined strength, they hold you steady, your body lax. You try hard to concentrate and then they all throw you upwards, grunting and whooping. You take in a deep breath, and focus it all under you, and then you are sent flying. They watch in amazement as you, like you had been hit with lightning, go soaring, and then scrambling.

You hit the other side in a flurry of leaves, branches shaking and struggle to get a grip. The wind is knocked out of you as a branch hits you square in the chest, but you hold on like a cat, fear and panic pounding in your chest. At first you think you're gonna get caught. A long antsy silence sits heavy in the air as someone waits for something. Your tail is tucked between your legs, your ears folded back in fear. 

"...Hey, Ruggie," One of the kids calls out, "did you die?"

Someone snorts. You do too. Fear is replaced with triumph.

"'Course not!"

They cheer, but you tell them to be quiet. You get to work fast, scrambling to get steady footing, and then reach for every red fruit you can. You toss them over the fence and everyone rushes to catch them before they hit the ground. Your heart is pounding in excitement and panic, and the pomegranates are too big to even fit in your hand. You don't think you just act, grabbing and throwing over and over. You get a glimpse of the estate. It is big and beautiful, bright white against the blue skyline. You can only get a few looks at what it looks like inside. You think about how your house could fit inside their entire living room. Some of their furniture is even bigger than your own bed. Must be nice, you think, and toss another pomegranate to your starving friends.

You only turn away for a second, but you guess that's just how it is with those folks. You hear her first and it makes your entire body go taught in fright.

"Hey!" She yells, "Hey, you!"

Instinctively, you turn to look. A lioness in guard regalia is looking at you in fury and surprise. You hastily grab as many pomegranates as you can, stuff them down your shirt, as she rushes for you. You don't turn to look back, you just make one last sprint to the wall, and jump. She's yelling at you to stop, to stop right there, and it makes you laugh loud and cruel. You do not stick the landing; your laughter is cut off with a very inelegant "Oomph!" Your magic is still a spastic thing that barely saves your skin. You land flat on your bottom, your whole body wracked with pain, but you scramble to get up. She does not catch you, and you all run like little hellions with your stolen splendor. You hold the fruit in your shirt close, and laugh. You cannot stop laughing. It's all the adrenaline and victory, and your feet are aching, the sun beats down on you, and it means nothing.

You become king for the day after you get a safe enough distance away, and everyone is crowing about your exploits, how cool you looked. You stand tall and proud, alternating between saying 'I told you so' and 'Did you see the look on her face?' No one tells the adults about this. Instead you all crack them open on rocks, and share the seeds amongst yourselves. You think you are all very clever when you return with red hands and red mouths, spare pomegranates you swear up and down you just 'happened to find' and say 'maybe they fell off a truck'. But before any of the consequences or scolding settled in, you just remember that walk back, licking pomegranate juice off your fingers. One of your friends laughed at you, incredulous.

"God, Ruggie," he told you, shaking his head, "You're crazy. You have such rich _fucking_ tastes."

You took this as a compliment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The love story is in full swing now, sorry it took a while to get to this point. How are you guys enjoying it? I'm still worried now if the weekly chapter update is a good idea 😓


	5. Reminds Me of Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm straying a bit from the canon in this chapter: I know the game stated that Savanaclaw lost to Diasmonia in the first round, but I wanted to change the timeline juuust a bit to get this scene. (It's a really good scene and I didn't want to sacrifice it lol) On a whole, nothing else has been changed however. Hope you enjoy it! :)

You know Leona is more sharp than people give him credit for. That, if he was any other person, someone would compliment him on his knack for reading people, knowing their schemes, planning around their intentions. He's like a natural born strategist, rarely ever caught unawares, and perceptive to dangers like a beast in tune with its surroundings. He'd be amazing if he ever made the effort. He'd be commendable if he wasn't such a bastard.

But you noticed this about him a long time ago and that's why you walk on eggshells around him the coming weeks. You know to not be stupid and to let on your newly found feelings, not go floundering around like some pup with its eyes barely open. You play it cool, but also you know Leona is smart. And you would rather die than face a moment where he takes you aside again, asks you what the deal is, makes you confess to this mortifying truth. It makes you wish all the more it wasn't there, but the heart wants what it wants, and yours decided maybe you needed a really good lay. It's such bullshit, you think. Maybe it's because you got a taste for the worse things in life. If you can't save yourself from this scenario, you find comfort that you can laugh at yourself about it.

(And you _know_ how he would receive it. You _know_ it would end badly. But young and hungry, you entertain the dreamy thoughts before bed. A knowing smirk. His hands grabbing your upper arms. Kisses and tastes and a release, a distraction, from everything. That would be nice, you think. Of course it would be nice. But so would winning the lottery and those chances are slim too.)

Thankfully, Leona does not seem to catch on. It might be because the magifit tournament is coming up fast. He's busy thinking about training, his dorm leader duties. When you don't see him on the field, you only see him sleeping. Most of the time he just orders for you and then waves you away when he's done with you. Neither of you have much chance to talk, and it's a blessing. You wonder if he's thinking about his brother. Wonder if he'll come watch. But this is just you being a little sentimental and you correct yourself: he's probably thinking of a way to defeat Diasmonia this year. You're only a first year, but you've heard enough rumors about Malleus Draconia to make a monster of him. Something in you wants to tease Leona about it, but his demeanor is absolutely screaming 'Don't talk about it with me' and you heed.

You miss him. Maybe. Just a little. But you guess that anything will feel familiar if you're around it enough.

You get so used to this touch and go interaction with him that he surprises you one night. You come to deliver his late night snack and sorta hope he's asleep. If that's the case you get to eat it. He asked for mandazi that night, because _of course_ he did, and the scent of cinnamon is making your stomach grumble. But when you open his door your hopes are dashed and your heart jumps. The room is dark, with only the moon lighting it up, everything pale blue and subdued. He is standing on the balcony, and is already looking over his shoulder to watch you, his ears twitching. He looks surprisingly awake there, and that's why he surprises you. You have gotten so used to seeing Leona distracted, or asleep. You get bearings enough, even though that wave hits you again, that stupid little _something_ in your chest longs again. You hold up the plate, smiling.

"I brought your snack, Leona! Really, though, do you know how messy it is to fry food this late at night?" You sigh, moving to place it on his bedside table like he likes, "You know, sometimes I feel like you pick this stuff on purpose, like you're picking on me."

You are mostly talking to hear yourself, which is nothing new between you two. But Leona is still watching you. 

"...It reminds me of home."

You stop. He said this so faintly, you wonder if you were just hearing something in the night.

"Huh?"

When you look up at him, he's still watching you, face placid and eyes fierce. It's strange. Something feels off in the air, but you just chalk this up to misaimed instinct. He looks back to the horizon, one hand laid over the railing casually. His tail swings back and forth.

"I used to eat them more," he tells you, "when I was younger."

You blink. You wait for him to elaborate but you should know by now he never elaborates. You feel the urge to mock him for acting out of character, but instead you entertain some silly impulse. You try to make it sound haughty, somewhat condescending, but it doesn't change the innocence of your question:

"...Why are you telling me this?"

And then he furrows his brow at you, glares at you, and you are comforted to know that Leona is being himself. He sighs, that breath of his scraping against the back of his throat, and brings his other hand up to push back his hair.

"You're the one who wanted to hear more about me." He says tiredly, "Don't complain when you get what you want."

Involuntarily, you flush, but beat back any invasive thoughts with your cynical logic. Instead, you just play it cool, as always. You laugh.

"What, you remember that? How long ago was that?"

"It wasn't that long ago."

"Has training made you tired?" You ask, putting down the plate with a faint _clink,_ "I'm surprised you're not asleep by now. Anytime I see you these days, you're asleep."

"Ruggie."

(Like a stab to the heart, hunger dancing with anticipation. Not enough.)

"What?"

"Why'd you ask that?"

"Ask what?"

"Would you quit dancing around this?" He growls, frustrated, "Just answer the damn question."

Leona's dorm room is a thing of envy, a spacious and well-furnished place that is built for comfort first and aesthetic second. Not that you don't like your own room, but you can't help but want more sometimes. You wonder if it is a happy coincidence that it's décor reminds you of home, or if there's something tied to the mirror's choosing and one's own upbringing. You have gotten to know this room very well since you've gotten here, but only because you're the only one in charge of it's upkeep. Sometimes you wonder how Leona earned his status of dorm leader because sometimes you think he doesn't deserve the luxuries. But he doesn't tell you anything, so you never bothered to ask. It's lovely in the night, however, the weather of Savanaclaw always comfortable and soothing. The night sky is pure, untainted by artificial light, so the stars are vibrant and fill the sky. It's like speckled paint, and the starlight makes him look both soft there even if he looked guarded. He stands out on the balcony, and you wish you knew what he was thinking. You hate knowing your place between you two. Sometimes he was easily predictable, but sometimes he gets like this too. Daring you to keep up.

And yet you would be lying if you aren't a little thrilled right now. In the spotlight. Remembered. Enough. You gulp.

"I don't know." You lie, and shrug, "Like I said, it's not fair. I tell you everything."

He blinks. Unsatisfied, he sighs heavily again and you feel like you've done wrong. You don't care, however, and don't show an ounce of guilt. He looks away, and turns his back to you, leaning against the railing.

"...Get over here." He says, finally. You heart jolts.

" _Huh?"_

"Are you deaf? I said, get over here."

It is taking all your willpower right now to not get your hopes up. Your heart is hammering in your chest now, so hard you feel like you'll faint. You try to walk casually, but you feel like your knees will give out, they're so weak right now. Standing alongside him felt like you were approaching a very volatile beast, and you act calm even though you are alert. He does not turn to look at you, instead studying the horizon intently, seriously thinking about something but still keeping you in the dark.

"You know," he says after what feels like forever, "I have enough to think about lately. I don't need you whining at me right now."

You instantly laugh at him, and he sneers at you.

"When have you ever been busy?" You tease, "Sorry, have I been interrupting your precious napping? All those times you skip class?"

"Shut up."

"I'm just saying, don't complain when you don't actually work."

"Ruggie-"

"And as far as I know, I've been doing everything you order me to. If anything you should be thanking me-"

"I can't stop thinking about it."

You stop. His voice is raw here, low, and it makes electricity spark through your body.

"...What?"

"What you said in the botanical garden." He looks away from you, ashamed, his voice struggling, "I don't know why, but I can't stop thinking about it."

You are breathless. Something sings in you in happiness, satisfaction, yelping for more. You are starting to weaken at how much you starve yourself of comfort; you wish you could take the victories as you see them, rather than needing proof. You wish he wouldn't say things like that so casually, as much as you wish you weren't so sensitive to them. You do not know how to react because you want to react in two, very extreme ways: you either wish to laugh at him, make this something volatile and nothing. You also just want to grab him by his shirt, bring him down for a kiss, drag him to his bed and make him yours. You're all this pent up energy and you want release in either the rejection or acceptance. But you hate that you have to be the one to make the call, because you know that will leave you open for the potential attack. So, you take the neutral stance; you say nothing to him. You let him sit with his confession, and let the silence pressure him into elaborating. You do not want a challenge from Leona; you want his intentions. You want him to give in for once.

He must see this. You hope he does, because he's smarter then he gets credit for. You're tracing star patterns with your eyes when he finally opens up:

"...What have you heard about me before?"

It sounds stupid. Something an idiot would say. He knows this, too; his tone is a little shaky, unsure, and angry at the vulnerability. But you're fine with that. You like it for its weakness, feel safe enough to approach in kind. You place your hands on the railing and tap them in a mindless beat as you form your thoughts. You shrug.

"I don't know. The usual things." You say, confident next to his shyness, "You're the second prince. You have no claim to the throne. Stuff everyone knows."

"And that's not enough for you?"

You hadn't thought of that. You know what you're getting isn't enough, but you wonder if it's necessary to know a person when all you wanted to do was sleep with them. You shrug, nonchalant.

"Guess not."

"Do you want me to strangle you or something?" He threatens, but you just grimace at him in kind.

"Don't get an attitude with me. You're the one who asked."

"What is it you want? Do you want blackmail? Are you just asking 'cause you're bored?" Then he laughs, cruel, "Or do you want to be my friend? You think getting me to open up is gonna make me like you?"

"Don't make me sick."

"You think I find this cute? Getting someone to actually reach out to me? Think I'm gonna roll on my back for you, Ruggie?"

"That's not it. God, you're so full of yourself."

You feel like you should bite your own tongue for lying to yourself like this, but there is the hint of truth to your retorts. Your aim wasn't kindness, it wasn't love, and you're too mean for kind schemes like that. You're too self-serving to fake sympathy like that. He scoffs, and suddenly your urges aren't deflection or lust, but the simple childish need to shove him off the balcony.

"I want to get this clear: you're not getting any special treatment from me." Leona tells you clearly, "So if that's what you want then you should give up here."

It happens before thinking, you feel a low rumble in your throat, and the anger has kicked in. You grip the railing and bite back:

"I can ask you the same thing."

"Huh?"

"What's the use of getting to know me?" You shoot back, smirking, "Wanting to know where I grew up. How it was like. Are you bored, Leona? Wanna feel better about yourself by hearing about me?"

He flinches. It's not like him, even if there was hostility to it.

"You must think 'thank God I'm not him', right? 'Hyenas are so _pitiful_.'"

"Ruggie-"

"I don't feel like being your punching bag, Leona. If that's what you want, go for one of the other saps in this place."

Adrenaline is shooting through your veins as you say this and you wonder if you have a death wish or something. You keep doing this, pushing his buttons like you're certain you would survive it. What's the point of putting yourself in danger like this? Here, you always thought you were the type to give up your pride if it meant survival, but it's different with him. Maybe it's because of who he is; a royal like that, lazy which is unlike you, ungrateful. He's so conveniently all the things you've scoffed at and so maybe it gets to you in a different way. You should be submissive, you think. Think about all that street cred, the free rides, the menial chores in return for nice pay. But you've both come at a crossroads and end up circling like antsy beasts.

But you are surprised when Leona does not bare his fangs at you. Doesn't tell you to get out of his sight. The scent of cinnamon still hangs in the air, and you wonder if his food has gotten cold by now. An immature part of you hope it has.

"What did I tell you," he says, silently, "about making assumptions of me?"

You're confused at the steady tone of his, and feel your shoulders go lax at the lack of fight. Still you are tired of being the one to give in, so even if your guard is down, you still have your counter attacks.

"Yeah, well, you're doing the same thing with me, aren't you?"

His ears perk up at this, in surprise. You get some delight at this reaction from him. He shakes his head, and glances back at you again. His green eyes are so bright there, tired but cautious. Pretty.

"This is such a stupid conversation." He declares, and you cannot help but laugh. Hostility dies down in shared nihilism.

"You're the one who started it!"

He seems to soften next to you, his gaze turning from annoyance to some bemused haughtiness. Like he could not believe he was here either, saying these things, getting in this fight. It was sort of nice, for the both of you to stand back like this, too mature for your hissy fits but also too stubborn to say your apologies. It was nothing solved, but it was shared ground and shared feelings. You're still unsatisfied, but it's nice to know the battleground is even despite a muddied war.

"...I did hear about you before."

"Oh?"

He looks at you sideways, his attention coy. You like it, so you keep confessing. 

"When your brother got married, a shopkeeper mentioned you."

"And?"

You do not hesitate. You saw no reason, and knew he would prefer the sting than the lies.

"He said it was good that your brother was getting married." You blink, the words heavy as they leave your mouth, "He said this kingdom would turn to sand in your hands."

A heaviness settles in. You don't feel sorry for anything, more interested in his reaction than how this would hurt him. You think that there was no reason to protect him anyway; he's always been more than capable to take care of himself, more of a threat to those around him than anything to be threatened. And you wonder if you have come to admire that, but it's looking more that you just might relate to him.

Struggling in a world that hated you. Trying to make your place despite what others said. Leona has had everything handed to him from day one so you wonder why he fights so hard. Is it easy to say he's just selfish and spoiled? That his pride is born of privilege? You're starting to wonder if maybe you have it all wrong. It's so easy to make assumptions of Leona, to write him off based on first meetings and impressions. But why are you so cautious yourself? Why have you always been so hostile?

He smiles bitterly, and chuckles. And the thought hits you straight in the chest:

_What if he is protecting what little he has?_

"That's rich." He scoffs, "That's real rich. It's almost ironic."

"You're mad?" You hear your voice say quietly. He laughs again.

"No. You think I care what people like that say? He's not exactly wrong anyway."

Something sparks at the end of his words and your ears twitch. You feel very exposed here, strangely enough, even though he is the one doing the talking. You feel as if you have stumbled onto something pure and fragile. It's so strange here in Savanaclaw, a foreign feeling like you got lost. You speak without thinking, like a part of you knows what to say, what to do. Like you only had to think with instinct in something as undecorated and breakable like this.

"What do you mean?"

He says nothing. He looks deep in thought, neither angry or sad. He is just thinking.

"Leona?"

Finally, he looks at you. His green eyes look very serious, very smart. For once, he looks mature in a way he is meant to be, and you know why he is dorm leader here. 

Almost noble. Like a king.

"I want to show you something."

"...Ok?"

"You've been around this room enough." He looks away, back to the night sky, "Bring me what you think is the most expensive item here."

It doesn't take you long. Every day you look at his costly trinkets, thinking in the back of your mind how much it must cost, how much you wish you could pocket it. Instead, what you're catching on is the steadiness of his voice, like he was some criminal resigned to death. It's cool. His ferocity is cool. His reserved side was cool too. You think very shyly that he really is luckier than he gives himself credit for. So much potential. So much wasted.

You bring him a gold bracelet with inlaid gems. They form a chain of warm reds and oranges, like a sunset encrusted on jewelry. You're not smart enough to know if they were rubies, but you know it must cost a lot. You hold it up on your palm for him to take but instead he places his hand on the back of your hand and your heart jolts. He is bold, but casual about it. He tilts your hand a little, and the gems sparkle in the moonlight. After studying it, he smirks.

"How did I know you were going to bring this? You're only smart when it comes to something like this."

"Hey-!"

"Hush." He says stoic, "Watch."

His hand cupping yours is feather light against your skin, like he was tentatively approaching the situation. He moves his other hand over it, and his eyes are half-lidded in concentration. Your chest feels tight with tension, but you wait. He mutters something, and your ears strain to catch something more than syllables. You get the end of it, and feel the air pulse with static, the familiar presence of magic.

_King's Roar._

And it glows, first, and you watch as he uncovers his hand, showing the bracelet. And it happens almost instantaneously in the palm of your own hand. The glittering bracelet dulls into brown, breaks down into sand. It shocks you so much that at first you cannot believe it. You slowly process what he has shown you, what this means, and you can only think one thing:

_What a waste._

You open your mouth. You close it. It's grainy against you, gone in only a moment and on a whim. You find your voice.

"This is…"

"My unique magic." He tells you and takes away his hand, "See? It's ironic, isn't it?"

You feel for a moment like you are the only two people in the world. Like what you say here will mean everything. You simultaneously feel seen and invisible, heavy with expectation and intention. Your usual snarky ways have gone quiet, and you feel as if you have lost all your defenses. You try to think of a way to make this nothing, to destroy the mood because it is overwhelming you. To see and be seen. You feel like you should cry, but you don't know why. You feel like you should hold him like he's going to disappear any second. And you don't know where all these drastic feelings are coming from, where this fear sprouts from, but you want to do something. Balance the scales. Payment due on time. Just some rich brat who opened up to you. You don't owe him anything. You should do nothing.

"Why," you gulp, "Why did you show me this?"

He's still staring straight at the horizon. Unshakeable. Decided on some path for you two. He sighs, looks upward.

"Don't complain when you get what you want."

You say nothing at this. It's very obvious, and he does not let it go unsaid.

"What?" He pressures you, "Does it scare you or something?"

You look down at the sand cupped in your hands. A treasure and then nothing in only a second. The thoughts flood: what is it like? Living with a magic like this? How frightening, and how terrible. It's so useless, you think, almost violent with how unfair it is. And it keeps coming back to you, the things that were said about him. Rude. Unworthy. Selfish. Lazy. All the things you knew about him before you even met him. 

And it's such a familiar feeling to you, the expectations of you seen by a world who did not love you. Your heart aches. You are loath to think either of you have anything in common but a part of you couldn't help but cry out. He looks so noble there, but so lonely. Just a beast cutting shapes against the skyline, baring its fangs. And why does a beast cry out? Is it to show off? Is it to protect itself?

And Ruggie Bucchi, you do not resist it. Everyone wants to belong. Everyone wants to be seen. You are no different.

"No," you tell him, "I was just thinking it reminds me of home."

You do not look at his reaction. You can feel him tense beside you, but you do not look. Instead you cup the sand in your hands, and blow, like a wish on a dandelion. You watch it drift away in the night air, sparkling as it flies. And you think that's sort of pretty how it can still glitter even if it was worthless. The barest of hints of what it used to be.

You both stand there, side by side, watching the wind take it away.

Known. Understood.

Loved.

* * *

You all make it to the semifinals.

It amazes you when the score is shot, when the crowd cheers, when it settles on you. You cry in victory with the rest of the Savanaclaw members, the scoreboard proudly declaring your win. You feel unstoppable and all of you cannot stop chattering in the locker room, joking, compliments hidden in snide remarks and boasting. You feel the overwhelming energy of a successful win, feel like _something_ with all of them. It must be something primal in you, the pride of a pack, the shared glory and happiness. You all know, of course, that your win is mostly thanks to Leona. He really is a dream on the field, fast and fierce like he owned it. You will admit, it was hard not to watch him, but it's easy to be impressed by him. Everyone congratulates him too, throwing him compliments, but he waves it all away. He acts aloof, but also like he knew these things already. 

To celebrate making it to the semifinals you all have a party that night. One of the upperclassmen explained the tradition to you, but you forgot it as soon as the conversation was over. All that matters to you is that tonight you get to party, there will be free food, and that you feel like you could take on the world. A bonfire is built in the open field of the dorm, food is brought out, and music is blasted loud and free. It's noisy and wild, the fire bright and brilliant against the dark sky, the rich smell of burnt wood hanging amongst the smell of grilled meat. You have your fill, chattering with your peers, recounting your wins and laughing. Leona contents himself by hanging near the back, sitting on the steps of the dorm, sprawled out, comfortable and lazy. It reminds you of a king watching his court, the way his tail casually swings back and forth in mild attention. He does not call for you, so you do not attend to him. A part of you wants to force him into the fold, but you think of your talk on the balcony and don't. You are alight with some frightening energy combined with your winner's high. It is not as if things have been outwardly awkward between you two, as you two have just gotten back into the swing of things like nothing happened. But you still feel some spark, a shift, and you wonder if it's all in your head or if something has begun. 

You do not overthink it; you just decide to enjoy the night. You polish off a drink, fizzy soda sparkling in your throat, and some teammates call your name. Looking, you see them dancing around the fire, inviting you. You grin, and join in, the music sporadic and untamed. Your body moves in rhythm, exhausted but spurred on with adrenaline. You feel free in the night, powerful and awesome, all limbs and emotions. You whoop into the night, and they join in like a pack of wolves crying to the moon. In between a spin, your hair crazy with movement, you spot him from the corner of your eye. It's a completely immature thrill, but a thrill nonetheless, to know someone you are attracted to is watching you. You would not say you were weak to attention, but you still feel that childish need to show off. You move, but you wonder who for. Did you want his approval? Is there something exciting in being seen? You want to know how you must look to him, as someone who is used to being seen as 'dirty' as 'unworthy'. There must be a weakness in that, but you want the validation too. To know that you must pull off something like beauty, something to watch with fascination. This is all in your head, you know that. For all you know he might not even be watching you specifically. Even worse, he could be watching you, and laughing, because your attempts at dancing makes you look ridiculous. But it's a breathtaking moment, to show off to a person you wanted yourself; to, in the most subtle and flippant way, assume you are seducing him just by existing.

Your attention is caught by the sound of someone's feet scuffing on the dry earth. Someone takes a trot back and then runs for the fire. You watch in amazement as he jumps over the bonfire, the sparks flying behind him, and everyone, including you, cheers. It starts an unspoken tournament and everyone takes their turns. You laugh when someone sticks the landing, and laugh harder if someone's tail gets singed on the way. There's nothing driving this moment but just impulsive fun and wild whims. You crush your soda can in your hand and throw it to the side, and get ready to make your go, but then feel someone's hand on your shoulder.

"Follow me." You hear him first, his lips right against your ear, whispering. Your breath stops, but turning to see him, Leona is smiling. You had not even heard him approach you. He motions his head, and in good mood, you just smile and follow. You do not feel the hint of suspicion because the night is so wonderful, all instinct, and so you follow suit.

You follow him to one of the dark hallways of Savanaclaw, the loud music faint in the background, the laughter and scuff of footfalls in the distance. The darkness is subtly lit by the firelight, and the shadows shake from the fire's movement. He leans against the wall, arms crossed. He looks smug, but happy there, and you can tell for all his offhand attention, he must be enjoying this too.

"Having fun?" He asks you, and you grin.

"Of course! You should join us, instead of trying to be cool about it." You tease.

"You wouldn't have gotten it."

"Huh?"

He motions back to the fire, as another member tries to make the jump. "You would have gotten burned." He grins, fangs shining in the light. You scoff.

"Oh _please_. You saw me on the field today!"

"Yeah? Which part? You mean when the disk almost knocked you off your broom?" He laughs and you shove his arm, still smiling.

"Don't get all high and mighty. What, you think you could do it?" You're laughing, heart light and bursting, "Does his Highness feel like talking with us lowly subjects now-"

You are cut off, because out of nowhere, Leona slams you against the wall and kisses you.

The whole world stops for you.

The party continues without you two. You can hear another yelp, someone who missed the fall, and eruption of laughter. Faintly, you are focusing on the music, some popular song easy to dance to. Your eyes are wide, and you take forever to register what is happening. 

Leona is kissing you.

_Holy shit._

It rushes all at once after the brief stop of shock. His kiss is sideways on your lips, surprisingly soft, his hands firm against your upper arms. He is holding you in place, but it doesn't hurt. Instead, what you focus on the most is just how gentle this all is. To this day, you still cannot remember the taste of your first kiss with Leona. All you can recall, the fact that you never forget, is just how gently he handled you. The scent of his hair, the feel of his warmth. Leona, cornering you against the wall, but savoring you instead of hunting you. In your awkward view you see his eyes are closed, and you think distantly you are supposed to follow suit.

That's how kisses go. Right?

Before you can dumbly follow, you feel his lips leave yours and he draws back. You watch it in slow-motion, his half-lidded eyes, like waking from a dream. And then he just watches you, his gaze somewhat dreamy and serious. You should say something. You feel separate from your body, so surprised you can't even think. He blinks, and then slowly you watch him furrow his brows.

He lets go of you, and steps back. His expression has gone from satisfied to frustration. But you know that frustration; he does not look mad at you, instead looking at the ground, lost and angry.

He brushes his bangs past with a hand, hair untamed and pretty. He sighs, loudly.

" _Fuck._ " He announces, and then without another word, just turns and leaves.

You listen, helplessly, as his footsteps descend down the hall, back to the rooms. You stand there, stunned, until you can't hear him anymore. Mindlessly, you put a hand to your mouth, and blush terribly as it all hits you at once. Your heart is hammering away at your chest, beating in time, and you try to catch your breath. You don't have any real thoughts, just feelings, just replaying what just happened and how it felt. He kissed you. _He kissed you._

Obviously, a part of you is thinking that's not good enough for you. Something more primal in you wants to chase him down the hallway, drag him back to his room, and continue where you both left off. Something in you is so happy to finally get something that you don't want to think about the particulars, you just _want_. 

And then everything else kicks in.

Logic and assumptions and the skittish defenses. What the hell _was_ that? Not even a warning, not even an inkling. Did he get swept up in a good mood? Were you just conveniently nearby and then he thought better of it? Just kisses you and leaves in a huff. What a goddamn _bastard._ You are in between begging for more and railing against him: what the hell was that! Don't just leave without an explanation! And don't leave a job half-finished!

Your face won't cool down, and you feel dizzy from all the rush of emotions. You do not even think of returning to the party; instead you stumble back to your room, feeling like your whole body was on fire.

A couple of first years pass by you, guys you knew from practice. They catch you in the middle of their conversation, grinning. Hey, Ruggie! They call out; you're already headed back?

You play the part, and laugh: you tell them not to do anything you wouldn't do. They try to coax you, teasing and good natured, but you just laugh them off. Your voice feels very far away, and your mind is still spinning with the thought of him.

A part of you considers confronting him right here and now, just kicking down his door and demanding answers. Demanding completion. But your heart feels a stab of fear at the thought, and you think you know why. 

It's not the confession. It's not admitting to him you want him. It's more that you are afraid to learn what you really want, what you are capable of. Holding a silly crush is one thing, but having the chance to actually act is an entirely other thing. And it's dawning on you what it means to get what you want, by first confessing you want it.

That night, you curl up in your bed, frantic and overwhelmed. You hear the party continue outside without you, and wonder when you became this person. When you began to doubt things that were too good to be true.

For once in your life, your hand hesitates before you steal what you want.


	6. Pointless and Beautiful Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairly short chapter this time around (you'll see why lol). I'll state now that the rating will remain as it always has, so vague is as far as it goes. Enjoy!

You do not dream that night.

You do sleep well, surprisingly enough.

That morning, you mindlessly go with the motions of your routine, feeling dull in the shower. It keeps replaying in your mind, the kiss and his abrupt departure. Usually you wake him up in the morning and wonder if you should skip that today. What a mortifying ordeal that would be otherwise. Or maybe you are overthinking it; maybe he will pretend like nothing happened. Maybe he really _was_ just swept up in a good mood and kissed you on an impulse. The idea of that is torture, but at least nothing would change between you two then. You're still not sure which option you want. You know, however, you will not be the one to decide for you two. Leona made the first move, and so he'll be the one to decide it. And what scares you is that if he was serious, if he meant it, you probably won't turn him down.

You wouldn't hate it.

It's a lot to take in in the morning. A lot to consider and ruminate on and struggle with. You've never been one for thinking, and just decide to confront the beast for whatever it will look like. You try to reason yourself that you're fine with any outcome that will present itself. That you would be fine if he just cut ties altogether. Again, you assume the worst, because you have only ever had the worse. Lost job, even though it was at no fault of your own. Lost relationship because of some split second decision. You tell yourself that's fine, more than fine. That your school life will become so much better when you don't have to babysit that guy. 

You are lying to yourself. In the deepest part of your heart, you ache at the idea that whatever was taking place here, whatever was blossoming, could be crushed so easily.

You have gotten so used to the idea of temporary things, knowing your happy moments, your treasures, were short lived and born of happenstance. That's just how you've lived up until now, knowing the storms come tomorrow no matter what. It would be nice to have something permanent. For the better chance to finally come for you. For luck to finally smile at you.

It's terrible to know you want something, because it's an easier life to live when you don't have hopes or dreams for the better things.

Look at you, though. Getting all sappy this early in the morning. All because a good looking bastard slammed you against the wall and kissed you. You scoff at yourself, and just accept your fate. When you go to wake Leona up, however, you first catch the smell of soap and water. The air is still somewhat humid from the shower, and while you do find him in bed, his hair is damp, and he's curled up in the sheets, turned away from you. Any tense expectations you have fall away in familiar exasperation. Gave up halfway through and you gotta pick up the slack as always.

"Leona~!" You call, like wrangling in an unruly dog, "It's time to wake up~!"

You tug at the sheets as you always do, and are surprised when he reacts quickly. Usually he's so sluggish in the mornings he takes a while to fight back, but this time he's fast. He grabs the sheets back, and pulls them back around his shoulder. He doesn't say anything, but you note the attitude in his movements.

"C'mon, don't be like that." You scold, "Don't forget, today we got our match with Diasmonia."

He says nothing, and buries himself more into the bed. You're aware now just how hard your heart is thumping, and you feel nervous but you don't show it. 

(It keeps replaying, his lips, his hands gripping your arms. You struggle to shake it off.)

"Honestly, you can never give me a break, huh?" You playfully complain walking around the bed to him, "You're our dorm leader so why not act like it for once?"

"Ruggie."

You stop. You hate that your name sounds so nice with his voice. He still hasn't emerged from the blankets, so you don't try to cut him off. You are waiting to see what he will decide for you two as the one who fired the first shot.

"Keep it down."

You blink. You smile, both relieved and in pain. This is good. This is torture. Absolutely nothing has changed, and you were a mistake, a lesser option taken in impulse. Nothing has happened. You think that both thankfully and sadly: Nothing has happened.

"Nope." You tell him gleefully, "Someone has to get you up around here, so-"

"Why are you here?"

And there it is. His voice is so solid as he says this, clear like a song. You felt each of those syllables ring against your heart, and without thinking you know to stop. Like someone tore down the curtain on a play, clawing away at the fakeness and niceties. You think of playing dumb, but know you two have gotten beyond this point with all your ridiculous back and forth, your games.

"Did you not want me here?" You ask him, darkly, half laughing in hatred. He shuffles, and you watch him emerge from the blankets and you feel your body shiver. His hair is messy in that beautiful way he has, his eyes glaring at you in defeat and defiance. The ends of his hair are curling from the water and he's both alert like he's been thinking long, and angry at what he might have been thinking of. The sun shines on him brilliantly, his green eyes so clear and awake. You can feel the weight of your own breathing clearly, the heavy rise and fall of your own chest. 

"Answer me first." He tells you with some despondent pressure.

You blink. You wonder if you should drag this out a bit more. You are realizing now you have the upper hand here and it feels nice. If you gave him a chase would that sweeten the pot or sour your deal? If you left him hanging would this satisfy you? You are so used to your shadows and your hiding, knowing that you are at the bottom of the food chain that you are not sure what to do when you finally have the good opportunity to retaliate. He seems to note your long silence, and sighs tiredly being pushed to more action. He looks away, eyes still sleepy and mature in a way you still don't know. Leona is not the type to bullshit people, and he certainly shows that here.

"What I did," he continues, "Wasn't on a whim."

(Your chest clenches more, something alight in your veins. You listen, pleased and cruel.)

"If you hate that, then you can leave."

You _could_ be sinister about this; hurt him where the weakness was and come out of this smelling like roses. Reject him and make him suffer with that rejection. Would that make you feel better? Make you feel bigger? It certainly makes you feel something to know your worries and suspicions were both proven wrong and proven right. It's very very rare when you get the winning hand. You hesitate with your prey, wondering to tear him apart or to bring him closer. Show him mercy or kill him here. And how sweet is that, hyena finally dealing the killing blow.

But we have said this before: Ruggie, when you _want_ things you just take them. Things like shame or laws or better morals never stopped your greedy, wandering hands.

"Am I supposed to be scared of you?" You ask, grinning, "Did you really think I'd run?"

Before you give him the chance to talk, you're on him.

You grab the blanket from his grasp, and surprise him by tearing it away. He looks at you, surprised, exposed, almost vulnerable in the bright sunlight. You do not think twice when you climb on top, when you kiss him, and you don't even flinch that badly when his hands end up all over you too. (You flinch _a little_ because he's so damn ferocious with his hands, grabbing and searching and gripping you.) It's a whirlwind afterwards, no second thoughts or hesitation but like all this build up finally had its pay off. Like you both had been pacing animals released from your cages, hidden thoughts or desires brought out into the open. You, maybe, feel a little self conscious that it's so bright in the room, but he turns you over, slams you on your back, and you know there's not much you can do about it anyway.

And it drives you crazy! The feel of his lips on your neck, his teeth nipping at you as he hungrily devours you. Your hands are searching him, feeling all that muscle you've only watched, soft skin and tender parts. Your mouth is full of the taste of him and he smells nice like soap and morning and you savor it, every single bit, because you feel you have earned it. This is the first time you have ever been with someone like this, but you are too drunk on him to feel the hesitation. Instead of being shy, you are instead all awkward eagerness, feeling you have to prove something, and to get what you can before you lose your chance. The whole world falls away in between you, and his tongue expertly pleases you, and his moans as you leave love bites satisfies you and it's so nice to eat without restraint. It's amazing, the things your bodies are capable of, what you can do to him and what he can do to you and you feel like the world is both upended and amazing. All your lanky limbs and bony hips and rough hands on him. You feel amazing and powerful and like you own him somehow. This is someone who spends his whole life in languid boredom and it makes you feel incredible to wake him up like this.

You want to be that person. You want to have this control over him. He's making you feel _important._

You're barely even cognizant when you start tearing your clothes off each other. Well, you _are_ aware it's happening, but it's like you feel very far away from all of this, more focused on how it feels than the fact it's happening. And you feel a little shy to show everything but it's not like you'd run now. He's a dream to behold and you're panting when you get a good look, excited from the view. He kisses you, and you close your eyes, running your hands through his hair. In between kissing you he breathes a question on your lips:

"Am I your first?"

Your heart jolts, but you figured it was going to come to this. You don't hesitate because of that, but being asked does make you suddenly feel very naive. When he comes back up for air, you answer.

"Does it matter?"

He grimaces at you, and you can feel his low growl against your own bare chest.

"Just answer the question."

"I'm not gonna break-"

" _Ruggie._ "

Hearing your name in this scenario straightens you out. You answer. And his hands get noticeably more gentle with you, and even though you get after him for this, he doesn't listen. You whine at him to not treat you like you're _fragile,_ but looking back on it you're grateful he didn't listen to you. You were a punk high off his victory and you thought you knew everything in that moment. Instead his kisses are forceful, but not violent, his hands strong but not bruising. He still bites you all over your shoulders, though, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't like the souvenirs. 

And it feels so natural, the way you two come together, like it had just been a matter of time. He haphazardly searches the bed side table for what he needs, and delicately handles you so that you're slowly giving in rather than forcing his way in. You whimper and buck and tell him _right there_ or _just like that._ He listens, which surprises you, but not as much as when he finally becomes one with you. And it's so amazing, the way your bodies sync up, the motions and the rutting and your heavy breaths mixed together. You scratch up his back like hell which, to this day, he still hasn't let go. But you are oblivious to any consequences, deep thinking, as you throw your head back, panting like you're in heat. And it's amazing. There really is no other way to say it. Like there's thunder in your veins, like everything you had wanted was finally given to you and then some. Your hips feel both weak and sensitive, your hands hungry and everywhere. His brown hair falls around you in gorgeous curling waves and you hope he likes seeing you. You hope you make a good show. You want him to like this just as much as you are liking it. You wonder if he's thinking the same thing, but you can barely even think now. It's just ruffled bedsheets and creaking, and body warmth drowning you. You feel so complete, on the verge of a new emotion, on the verge of a pleasure you never thought was meant for you.

And then you see stars.

The sound you make is nothing you've ever made before and it makes you flush even though you're so red at this point it's reached your shoulders. You shudder through it and he slips his hand into yours, interlacing fingers as you weakly grasp at him. You're catching your breath as he gets his own release and you let out another embarrassing little noise. You squeeze his hand and he squeezes back. The world goes from high energy to a pleasant blur afterwards, and you can feel the rise and fall of your own chest. The room has quieted into nothing but your shared pants, a descent after the climax. He rolls off top of you, and you both lay there, flushed and out of breath and glowing with a sweet satisfaction. Your mind finally comes back into view, like it had been in the background as your body took over and you stumble back for air.

Your body is buzzing with warmth and pleasure, your legs and hips numb with something nice. You savor this in, what just took place, these emotions you've never felt before. Somewhere in your mind you feel like you've crossed some threshold, like somehow this changes you, but you don't focus on that. Instead, you blink, sinking into the realization.

You feel like you _should_ be surprised. Like this had come out of nowhere, falling into bed together like this. And yet you didn't question it any step of the way, and you wonder if that means it had always been teeming under the surface. Like there was some high-strung energy between you two that led to this. That you knew on some subconscious level he had wanted you, and you finally gave him the okay. You think that sounds very mature. Speaking without speaking, like this is what differentiates it from silly crush to a mature fling. Letting bodies and atmosphere do the talking, doing away with awkward conversation and just knowing what you both want.

To be honest, you think all these complex deep things later. Right now, you're just coming down from the high of a very good fuck and you try to establish order with that shaky stability of a mind still trying to catch up to emotions.

"Leona," You say first, voice soft, "you're not in love with me, are you?"

It's the first thing out of your mouth because you are impulsive and you are scared. You feel very overcome right now, on the cusp of something new, and you get to the heart of the matter. Almost instantly, you hear him scoff and realize you should have phrased that better.

"If that's what you want this to be, my wallet's right over there." He says darkly, "Take what you want."

"That's not-!" You flush from shame, slapping your own self out of your good mood. You sit up, and he looks up at you, his expression sour. He looks dazzling there, his hair wild from all the exertion, his eyes still glazed with pleasure, a faint blush to his cheeks. It's too much to take in, so you look away.

"That's not what I'm saying," you clarify, quietly, to the wall. He shifts in bed, and the room feels comfortably warm despite everything.

"You didn't want this?"

"I did."

Silence. A very vague and questionable silence. You said it automatically because you meant it. It stretches on long enough that you are surprised when Leona grabs your upper arm and drags you back down. He holds you there casually, arm thrown over you like he did back in the garden. His expression is near unreadable to you, handsome but studied. At first you were worried you'd done something wrong, ruined a good thing here, but he looks unaffected. You forget he's more confident in himself, no coward, so he wouldn't be so easy to scare off.

"Then what's wrong?"

"Nothing. I don't know." You grimace, feeling very immature now, "Shouldn't we talk about this?"

"What's there to talk about?"

For some reason you, street-smart you, are struggling with this. Like maybe there should be more _rules_ , more _apprehension._ Like you are worried there's some punishment for you if you do this. It never dawned on you that you could just _have_ him and keep him. Your mind is still tingling with pleasure, and it just feels so pleasant to lie with him like this.

"...You know what I am."

You're just letting the impulses take over because you're too confused to think about any of it. Hearing yourself say this made you realize coldly what you were worrying about, how you felt. The implications are heavy in your sentence, but if he catches on he doesn't show it. Instead, hearing this, Leona gives you a very slow, sideways smile, in between amusement and annoyance.

"What's this? When did you get so shy, Ruggie?" He teases, "What are you doing, bringing up pointless things like that?"

His fingertips ghost up your arm, making you freeze in attention, making something in you scream for more. 'Pointless things like that'. His words echo in your mind and you feel some relief wash over you, realizing what he's saying here, what is going on between you two. The vulnerability and the shyness melt away in view of the role you are willing to take. You grin at him, all defiance and coyness, and lean in. He takes your kiss hungrily, and it makes chills run up and down your spine. No strings attached, clear cut terms. You like that.

He reminds you of your disobedience.

You like that.

You may have talked about other things. You may have just drowned in kisses and gone another round. You don't remember. All you remember is how it all felt. Momentary fear, embarrassment, and then Leona, too cool for any of that, striding past it with the grace of someone who owned the place. He set the mood for you two, and you willingly followed, comfortable with the solution, more happy with the reward. It was comfortable. It was all so smooth like a duet, like a dance. No strings attached, no melodramatic emotions, just indulging in each other because you felt like it. You liked that. You preferred it. And it should be said, none of this felt painful or restrictive because it's like he knew what you wanted.

And looking back on that, you wonder if he was the one hurting.

(No, you realize.)

(That came later.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short announcement; I'm thinking of getting a beta for this fic! I'm not really sure where to start looking for one, but if anyone is interested please send me a message! :)


	7. Stay with Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The timing of this chapter is purely coincidental lol. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, everyone!

Savanaclaw loses to Diasmonia in an almost embarrassing record time.

You don't talk about this. Leona doesn't even give you the chance to talk about it, because when you go see him that night his door is locked (unlike him) and he doesn't respond (not unlike him, but worrying.)

It's not as if you don't hear about it however. It was broadcasted to the world, so it basically becomes a mark of shame for the entire dorm. It's a school full of cruelty and casual harshness so you hear it in the hallways and the cafeteria. That yellow ribbon you wear on your bicep feels like an embarrassment, but you've lived your entire life with such a mark and so you don't let it bother you. People can tease you as much as you want, not let you live it down, but you answer in retaliation and savage insults so you survive. You wonder if they would say these same things if they had been there. Malleus is everything you had feared and more, his teammates barely even getting any say in their own fight, and it unnerves you. A guy like that has no right even being called a student, you think. A monster unleashed on these halls. Instead of being impressed, you instead give him your fear. As always, it is easier to blame something tangible, then something intangible, more crushing and inward. You will not blame your own incompetence or weakness, but the terror that Diasmonia's dorm leader is.

Still, the rest of Savanaclaw does not follow your lead. Most of them do the same complaining as you, but a lot of them lash out against Leona. You would be surprised if you weren't already well aware of the shaky loyalties people had. It was easy to voice the complaints against him, finding any fault out of bruised ego: he should have prepared us better. He knew the type of guy Malleus is. Why didn't he plan for that? The dorm leader got over-confident, he got lazy. But hasn't he always been like that? Heard he's gonna be held back again this year. What kind of dorm leader is he?

If you were a better person you would say something to this. Like some kind of hero in a manga, just speaking out and telling them to lay off. But you are not. When have you ever been that person? Instead you keep your head ducked low in the changing room before practice, irritated at the whining but not doing anything about it. 

Still, you cannot help but think: what a bunch of pathetic guys. Gotta cry and say it's someone else's fault.

(You are no better.)

Because of all of this, when you see Leona again, you do not bring it up. He seems antsy anyway, sleeping in or noticeably quiet around you. You know better then to go blabbing like some moron, so for once you shut your mouth. You both continue as you did before, boss and lackey, doing what you are told and skimming off the top where you can. He only leaves you in limbo for a day, wondering at the state of your relationship, before he grabs your arm one afternoon, and kisses you.

If you thought it was a one time thing, or if this loss would kill his mood, you were wrong. It happens just as impulsive as the first time, and it begins a new relationship between you two. Before you know it, you are falling into bed with Leona more times than you care to admit.

And it's as natural as it is casual, and you love it.

The second time shocks you only because of how needy he acts. He says nothing, but he covers you in kisses and savors you. The entire time his face is buried in your neck, and he's holding your hand, somehow both breakable and possessive. You enjoy yourself, but it also makes something flutter in your stomach. It's sweet. You wonder if this is how it's going to be. Are we going to be sweet like this?

The third time things are corrected soon enough: he's not rough, but he is more wild. Kisses you less. His hands grip at your hips and leave marks. You enjoy this too, gripping his bedsheets, feeling full and alive. It's not as scary because it's all physical and something in your heart breathes a sigh of relief. That same trend continues and each night you find some excuse to leave and he never stops you. You walk back to your room in some strange, mild form of a walk of shame, both elated and dizzy. The two of you get so used to it, that when you _do_ finally talk about it, it ends up being casual and nonchalant. It's not love. You're just having your fun. You both feel very assured with this decision. It makes you feel mature. It makes you feel safe, but you're not sure from what.

The loss to Diasmonia clearly takes its toll on him, but he won't talk to you about it. He skips more classes. Falls behind on assignments. It takes you longer to get him out of bed. You are apprehensive to admit this, but he's more himself when he's with you. Like the times you two were together were worlds apart from everything else. You try to turn a blind eye, but it gets to you. You remind him about his classes and his work and if you don't shape up you'll be held back another year. Don't you care? You give him your usual tirade during lunch, and he just looks up at you from his resting spot in the botanical garden. His eyes are narrowed, and you prepare yourself for one of his usual empty threats.

"Shut up." He tells you, "That has nothing to do with you."

"Leona-"

He pulls you forward here, and shuts you up with a kiss. It's the first time he kisses you in public, but you don't fight him. Instead, you are thinking about what he said. How he's right. This really has nothing to do with you. Why do you care? If he falls behind, that's on him. If he's content to give up, that's on him. The worst part of it, you suppose, is that you'll be seeing him another year.

(Is that the worst of it?)

You're starting to realize that he's probably using you as a distraction. If you were more romantic, you would think of yourself as a reprieve, but you're not that naive. If that's all you are, then you should just forget it, right? You are confused with some new emotion, all sorts of changed boundaries and feelings, and you struggle to catch up. When you had left for Night Raven College, you had felt like you were leaving something behind. Coming back home after the semester, you feel as if it will sink in more just how many things have changed. You suppose this is a part of growing up, but you try to humble yourself. You're just in the shadow of a king, is all. You're just watching the fall of an empire.

It makes you sick. Reflecting on all the things that pissed you off before, the things that impressed you, you thought it was stupid to leave things like this.

It happened one night and you're both catching your breath, lying in his bed. You mindlessly play with one of his braids, the one you made up for him that morning. It's looser, you notice, with all the movement. You're wondering if you should redo it, or undo it. It's late. There would be no point in fixing it if he's headed to bed soon. Distantly, you are trying to think of a new excuse to leave, or if you two have gotten to the point where you don't need to announce it anymore. Instead, you know you are a few weeks away from the end of semester and you know you cannot leave things like this. You gulp, before you make the jump.

"Leona," you say softly, because the room is so tentative now, "what happened with Diasmonia?"

He blinks, and frowns. He looks like he was savoring some afterglow, before you made him swim back to the surface of consciousness. His ear twitches in irritation.

"What are you talking about?"

"The interdorm competition." You clarify, "You haven't talked about it."

"We lost." He growls. "Why are you bringing this up?"

"I know that. I'm just saying, doesn't it piss you off?"

"Of course it pisses me off."

"Is that why you're being held back again?"

"Ruggie," he warns you, "drop it."

You get a little petty at the tone of his voice, get stupidly defensive in response. 

"Why?" You ask him, your voice a little indignant, "You can't seriously be planning to just run with your tail between your legs, do you?"

"I said drop it."

"Everyone's been talking, you know. You're just gonna let them?"

He narrows his eyes at you, some warning in his eyes for you to stop here. You already know you're toeing the line, but don't care. It's pissing you off too, not just the talking but the silent response. He has this habit of his to give up when the obstacles are too much and you already know he's more than capable to take them on. Mostly, however, it's your own pride being disgusted at the lack of it in another. You don't _actually_ care so much as seeing this irritates you.

"I know they've been talking. If they had more guts they'd say it to my face." He grumbles and readjust himself, the braid leaving from between your fingertips. He puts his hands behind his head, and stares stoically up at the ceiling. His chest is broad and open and you cuddle up to him because things have gotten so intimate between you two that this isn't rare. He's warm, and you feel the slow rise and fall of his chest. The verge of a fight softens into discussion because of the setting and you let it.

"So you _have_ been thinking about it?" You ask. He scoffs at you.

"Of course I have. You really thought I'd leave it like that?" He pauses for a moment, "As if I'd give that guy the honor."

You smile, malicious, feeling like something in the world has righted itself. Your tail is wagging, but you don't notice. 

"Thinking about that match gets me so mad!" You admit, happy to finally have room to complain with him, "Like where's he even get that power? How's that fair?"

"Don't go saying that. That's just making excuses."

"But you're thinking it too, right? I could barely even keep my eyes on him, he's way too fast. I feel bad for the rest of his teammates too. Just standing around like a bunch of dumb puppies."

He chuckles a little at this, and you smile, feeling the rumble of it against your skin. He laughed. You wonder if you were worried for nothing, or if opening up to him got him to relax. He always noticeably softens when it's just you two, like this.

He shifts again, and brings down one of his arms. He shows the palm of his hand to you and your eyes widen. You wonder how you had not noticed it before, or if he had been so greedy with you before you so you _wouldn't_ notice. His hands are rough, red and raw in places. The evidence of rough play and too much magic.

"I've been practicing." He admits, "Trying to reach that level."

His voice is solid and you listen to this confession carefully, knowing this is his trust in you.

"I can't even get close." He says tiredly, bemused, both angry and proven right. You know he is playing this off as indifference but you see through it. Instead, heart beating, you try to handle this. Tentatively, you reach out and brush fingertips against the soft inside of his palm. You can feel the rough edges, and it's so familiar to you. You blink.

"Let me see." You tell him, and there is no apprehension between you. You just casually fall into your roles.

You grab the lotion from his side table and get to work applying it, like some attendant to a king. And yet doing this, you don't feel any power imbalances or hierarchy. Instead he just watches you passively, lying back, relaxed and at attention. He does not wince, but you knew if he was a weaker person he would. The smell of it is subtly sweet, and it's soft in your hands as you maneuver your fingers against his skin, between his own fingers, against the knuckles and ligaments. His hands are strong and well-defined, years of sports and good genetics on his side. They're bigger than yours, but you already knew this. They used to be softer than yours too, but it bothers you to see it different now.

Like something you had gotten used to was changed without your permission. It irritates you.

To make up for the tender atmosphere you berate him with dumb complaints. Honestly, you tell him, pushing yourself this hard. Don't you know a blue blood like you is too _delicate_ for this? Your hands nearly match mine now, you laugh.

He snaps at you for some of this, but is mostly reclined and tired. You are not a threat to him. Instead he breezes past this non-conversation and speaks more.

"I've been trying to think of a way to get revenge." He confesses to you coldly, the same pointed hostility of a beast planning a hunt, "I can't let him get away with this."

You smile at the tone, familiar in a way you know. He's finally starting to sound like himself again.

"We can't attack him on school grounds." You offer, "He's too stupidly strong to jump."

"You don't face an opponent like that head on."

"So what? We all train like crazy and try to catch up?"

"Again," he sighs into the air like he's already thought of this, "you don't face someone like that head on."

Leona is a master at strategy so you know he's probably thought of all the solutions you'll come up with, and the reasons they won't work. You know you're not actually here to solve the problem, but instead a sounding board. You shrug instead, and motion for him to give you the other hand. He complies, wordlessly.

"I guess we got until next school year to come up with something." You remind him, "Maybe if we're lucky, something bad will happen to him over break." You laugh terribly.

"Idiot. Something like that won't make me happy." He frowns, "I don't want him to get off free."

You didn't even think twice when you said it. It was just the natural flow of conversation and your own mischievous way of thinking.

"Ah man, it's just not fair." You sigh dramatically, "He barely plays by the rules as is. So why do we have to?"

Leona grips your hand immediately upon hearing this, fingers interlaced, and the sudden action makes you jump.

You look up, ears perked up at attention and you are surprised to see Leona staring at you just as surprised. His eyes are wide, but he's not looking at you. Instead he seems like he has retreated inward, thinking quickly on some realization. That almost innocent expression only lasts for a moment though; soon he smiles deviously, his face changing expression to something confident and violent.

He looks so awake there, you think. He laughs a little, and it's gravelly happiness sinks into your chest.

"What?" You ask him, confused, "What is it?"

"Of course you would say something like that." He tells you, impressed and amused. He tilts his head to the side, rubbing a thumb against the side of your enclosed hand. "Of course."

You are missing something. You know you are missing something. You are witnessing the beginning of something, but you still don't know it yet. Looking back, you wish you could say you had some inkling, some terrible feeling, but nothing like that comes for you. Your intuition didn't kick in. Maybe it's because you weren't scared of the plan at the beginning. Maybe you were too busy being impressed by him, being a bad influence on him. Leona is on a whole other level compared to you; you were not the catalyst so much as the inspiration. He did most of the leg work, you just kicked off the bomb. But you don't know that in this moment. All you know is that he's happy with you, and his hands are starting to feel soft against you again. You just smile at him, following suit.

"What's with that smile?" You ask him, casually.

"What smile?"

"You're up to something, aren't you?" You shamelessly flirt and squeeze his hand back, "C'mon at least let me in on it." 

He softens a bit, more amused by your pestering than irritated. He doesn't answer you with anything other than a cocky smile and instead leans forward. You shiver as you feel his hands, fragrant and tender, slide around your waist. His fingers fit perfectly between the jut of your ribs and it almost makes you laugh with how ticklish it is. You let him pull you forward slowly.

"Don't go back to your room tonight." He orders you. You grin, shaking your head.

"Why? Don't tell me that wasn't good enough for you."

"Stay with me tonight."

He ignores your joke, and something clenches your heart. His voice is soft even if he is being commanding. It feels a little sentimental to you, and so you try to make this harmless, declawed by flippant attitude.

"What, and risk everyone seeing me sneak back to my room in the morning? No thanks." You say with a dramatic sigh. He ignores you, placing feather light kisses on your neck, his hands sliding up your back now. 

"I'd like to see them say anything." He says confidently, "Stay with me."

You feel like you should fight this a bit more, try to put up more of a resistance. But he's very convincing when he gets his hands on you, so instead you are closing your eyes and enjoying the attention. It's catching at you, the sudden change in him, the way he was treasuring you right now. You know you have brought something back out of him, that aggravating pride, that devious nature. You are distantly thinking about it, but also you are someone who knows to just bide his time until the opportunity was good. Besides, you like Leona like this. Some sad thing sleeping away in his bed did not suit him. If he was up to no good, then you knew he was doing well. 

You will not admit this, but you like the threat he made. It made you realize you were not a mark of shame for him. That you were like a prize, an announcement, even if it was only to the dorm. You wonder if that makes you lesser to be appeased with his attention and approval. If you were happy to have just him know you. But also you're not an exceedingly prideful person, not when there was a sweet reward. You have already enjoyed the benefits of being the dorm head's second hand man, you don't know why this had to be any different.

If anything bothered you, it was how you felt in the morning. When you woke up cuddled with him, you felt like you looked like lovers.

And that scares you.


	8. Excuses We Make in the Dark

You breathe a sigh of relief when you get your final test scores back and you pass. You bid farewell to your first year and realize just how much happened in that time, just the sheer chaos Night Raven College is. Mermaids and curses and magic and quick schemes and easy money. Despite your grandmother's warnings when you first came here, you can't help but feel like the place suits you. At least, it certainly kept you busy and it was easy enough to adapt to. You will not admit it, but you're looking forward to the second year.

Leona did not pass. You already knew he wouldn't. You whine at him about it, but he's not interested in that. Before both of you leave for home, he gets his fill of you to satiate him. You take this good-naturedly, fruitlessly trying to get out his grasp before he pulls you back in, selfish. I need to get going, you tell him. You're going to make me late. He answers your complaints by biting deep into your shoulder, drawing blood. When you gasp, you think how much you're gonna miss this.

The initial novelty of returning home wore off after the first holiday break. Now returning home feels like routine and reprieve. Your grandma swears you have gotten taller. You both try to see if that's true by measuring you against the old height chart in the kitchen doorway. The pencil marks from when you were a kid are still there, marks of other kids from the neighborhood alongside them. You haven't. You wish you did. She says at most you've filled out some. She pinches your sides with the shameless confidence of a matriarch and you swat her hand away, laughing. The loss against Diasmonia follows you here in the slums too. Everyone brings it up when you see them; you know we were all crowded around the TV to see you. What happened, you chickened out? It's all in good nature, though. You tell them you felt bad for Malleus and let him win cause he seemed so weak. They laugh about it. You all talk about the rest of the matches, your wins, your embarrassments. They ask about Leona, of course. How's he like? In person?

You tell them he acts like the sun shines out of his ass.

They laugh harder.

If anything does feel different, it's the distance between you two. It feels so strange, to know he was untouchable, barely even a blip on your radar, when you've gotten so used to how school made you equal. At that time if you wanted to see him, all you had to do was hunt him down in his room or the gardens. But now you can clearly feel the separation between you. Your statuses feel so apparent here, you in the slums and him in the palace. You think it's so odd how neither of you would have met if you had never gone to the same school. How strange it was for a lion and a hyena to get together based on the strange happenstance of life. Something feels poetic in that, but you don't let it sit for long. Instead, you have all sorts of chores to catch up on, work to do, friends and neighbors to catch up with. You try best not to think about it, but it's like the way he's held you has left his fingerprints on your heart. You carry yourself now with the memory of him, of each other, and it starkly contrasts to the person you had been before you left. 

I mean. Who _wouldn't_ feel different after fooling around with a member of the royal family and not getting to tell anyone about it?

You feel out of sorts but you don't have a name for it. Like you're trying to break in new shoes. Something is off, but you only see it a week into your break. 

Your grandma is a master in the kitchen. She's trained you since you were just a cub, making you help her cook, getting you to stand on a stool just so you could reach the counter. Everyone in the neighborhood knows this too, and she always tells you she'd be a richer woman for her skills if fate had loved her. It happens one afternoon, and you're killing time on Magicam when you hear the truck's horn blaring in front of your house. Your grandmother grumbles, asking who's making all that noise, and when you both go outside a neighbor of yours and his son are grinning like thieves in their pick-up. The bed of their truck has at least three coolers stacked up and they excitedly tell your grandmother the news: the butcher from the end of the market is closing up shop. You know, that rotten bastard? Heard he lost a lot of money gambling, and his old woman was having a sale. They show off all the cuts of meat like excited little kids, and you're all looking at it hungrily. Your grandmother asks what's the catch. She's poking fun at them, accusing them of stealing but they swear up and down, it's just good luck. It was one of those rare chances in life, being in the right place at the right time. They practically beg her: Oh, Miss Bucchi. Will you be our angel and make this a miracle? She laughs loud and happy at this, shaking her head at their charms. She examines it all, and settles on a menu. Decided, she writes you a shopping list and sends you to spread the word and collect money. Tonight was going to be a feast for the neighborhood. 

The afternoon was a haphazard scramble then to get everything together. The rest of your time is spent rushing from home to home, then to the market, and then helping prepare the food. Soon enough the kitchen is bustling and full of other people from the slums, helping out with the preparations. The place smells of fragrant spices and grilled meat, the radio is turned up loud. You're all talking over each other, and laughing. Some of the girls from the neighborhood want to see you cook with magic, but your grandmother forbids it. Don't wanna waste these good ingredients just so you can show off. Do it the old-fashioned way. You roll your eyes and sneak some grilled meat in rebellion. It's juicy, and you feel a swell of pride and greed all in one. 

By the time the sun sets your backyard and house is packed. The food is divided evenly, and a fire is lit. It's all energy; the TV is turned up on some magifit match, the wives gossip in the kitchen. A bunch of older men from the neighborhood are sitting in the back sharing drinks and stories. One of them, clearly tipsy and in a good mood, beckons you over. He asks how old you are again. After you tell him, he offers you a sip of his beer but your grandmother is too quick. She swats the back of your head just as you're reaching forward. She scolds them: what did I tell you about offering my grandson that stuff? I don't need him to become old drunkards like you. They just laugh and you flush with the familiar embarrassment of a child. 

You chat with some of the other teenagers from your neighborhood in your bedroom. You show them some magic there, away from the prying eyes of adults and they watch in amazement, ask you all kinds of things. One of the girls notices the bandage peeking out from the collar of your shirt. She surprises you by tugging it downward, examining the mark Leona had left on you before. She grins and accuses you of learning about more than just magic. You stick your tongue out at her and tell her to keep quiet.

It's all so familiar to you, good mood only because of good food. And yet a part of you feels oddly separate from it all, like you are not enjoying it to the extent everyone else is. You feel disconnected only because a part of you is thinking about tomorrow, what it will be like when the food runs out, when you all wake back up to the hot baked morning in the slums. Work to get to where no one appreciates you, aches to get used to because you can't afford the doctor. Hunger that will settle back in. And you think of how much you have changed, because you had gotten to a place where you now begin to think about these things. Where you are not so easily satisfied with a good night, and feel something hollow for the coming day. 

You are wondering where these hunger pangs come from. You are headed to the kitchen to see if your grandmother needs help, and you pass by the bonfire in your backyard. Lots of people are talking near it, children weaving in and out of the crowd, chasing each other in loud laughter. And looking into the fire, it reminds you of that night.

Possibilities. Stolen victory. A kiss pressed on you in the dark. 

It's the distance, isn't it? The person you are there feels so different from the person you used to be. So much has changed. Night Raven College is nothing like the slums, there was no invisibly hierarchy but an equal footing. You were on the same platform as the rest of them and all you needed was your own strength, your own determination, cutthroat tactics. It didn't matter if you were a hyena there, because you still got the chance to fight back. Survival at Night Raven College felt like a victory; here it just feels like settling for less.

You are no longer content with the small moments, and it feels like you could have so much more. Surrounded by your loved ones you just feel the inescapable ache of knowing it could be so much better.

You are not looking down on them. You know how it is like to adapt to the unfairness, to make best with what little you have. Instead you just wish they could have more. You have known them for your entire life, their virtues, their dreams, achievements and losses. They dream like the rest of the world dream, but have gotten so used to quieting that howl, to know it will not be answered. You have had the chance to experience it, a comfortable bed, a cafeteria with affordable food, just the chance to prove yourself. And it bothers you to think how close Savanaclaw had been to that too. You were there, broadcasted in front of the whole world, a hyena who still couldn't surmount the obstacles. It makes you mad. You had been so concerned with how the loss had affected Leona, you had yet to step back and think how you felt.

And it makes you angry. So close, and so far. Surrounded by everyone, you think it's so stupid and you're sick at just ducking your head and letting the injustice win. Of being complacent with one good night stacked up against the rest of your suffering days. You had been this person before you left for school, but now you want more.

You get that thought again, of how nice it would be to turn this world upside down.

That night, you get the phone call.

The guests file away slowly but surely into the night. Families leave first, and then rambunctious teenagers, and then finally sad old men still clutching beer bottles in their hands. It's one in the morning when the house is yours again. You clean up where you can and then you both throw up hands and leave it for the morning. Your grandmother ends up nodding off in front of the TV, some shallow action movie playing in the background. You turn down the volume for her, and cover her with a blanket. You kiss the top of her head, and her ear twitches as she snores quietly. You are still feeling out of sorts but decide to sleep on it. Your belly is full and you are sluggish in a way you rarely ever feel like. You decide to be content with this. You pass out on your bed for only a minute before you hear it ring across the room. The room is dark, but the phone screen lights up like a beacon on its charger. You sluggishly open your eyes, both a little irritated, and confused. You just grasp at it in blind sleepiness but then wake up as soon as you see the name on the screen.

You blink. Your heart feels embarrassingly light. You don't even hesitate, and you are ashamed of this. Instead, you just hit 'answer'.

"Leona?"

The night stretches on long and solid in this moment. Distantly, you can only hear the sounds of crickets chirping, feel the comfortable heat of the evening. He's so quiet, you wonder if he accidentally called you or something.

"Ruggie." He finally says, and it's so strange to hear him over the phone, so new, "I need to talk to you."

You realize your initial excitement and cover it up with your usual attitude. You blink rapidly, and get yourself back in order. 

"The hell? You know what time it is?" You glance at the phone screen, then bring it back, "It's almost three in the morning."

"I said I need to talk to you."

This is catching your curiosity, and you would be lying if you said you didn't want to play the game to see the end. But you know it would be no good if you didn't give him a bit of a chase. You get up, and head for your backyard so you wouldn't wake your grandmother.

"Man, don't you know we're on holiday?" You laugh, voice quiet as you make away across the living room, "You really don't give me a break, huh?"

"You can control people with your unique magic, right?"

You frown as you slowly open the back screen door, as it creaks long on its hinges.

"Yeah? You saw it that first day."

"How many people can you control at a time?"

You make sure to guide the door back so it doesn't slam shut. The crickets are louder in the night, and the smell of smoke is strong in the air. The smoldering ashes of the bonfire sit dark and dilapidated in your backyard. You see the things you will have to clean in the morning, but ignore it for now.

"Why are you asking?"

"That first day you were able to control three people." He relays back to you, his voice surprisingly awake despite the hour, "Is that normal for you?"

"Hm...it's kinda pushing it." You answer tentatively, cautiously watching this conversation play out, "I mean, if I do that I can maybe pull it off once a day."

"And how long can you control a person?"

You blink. You're getting an uneasy feeling at this interrogation, and sit yourself on your back porch, settling in for what will be the eventual confrontation. You don't bullshit with him; he probably already knew you wouldn't.

"Leona." You talk to him strongly, "why are you asking?"

"...I'm planning something."

You grin. You do like the sound of that.

"So I _was_ right. So? What is it?"

"Answer me first."

You sigh at him, tortured at the meal being kept away, but play along. You lean back and think on it for a bit. You know your limits with your magic, but it's not like you've gotten much of a chance to practice it. You shrug.

"Maybe a few minutes if it's one person. I've never tried for longer."

"Hn." He answers distantly, deep in thought. You hear him shift on the other end, hear the muffled sound of bedsheets. He must be in his room, right now. Despite yourself, you wonder how it looks.

"So what are you planning?" You press him, "If you need me at least tell me what it is."

"You're impatient, aren't you? I'm still planning it out."

"Does it have to do with Malleus?"

"I told you I'm still thinking it over."

You are a little excited at the prospect because of the wounding thoughts you had before. Unequal opportunities, and the chance at better swiped away by a monster who will always have more than you. You do not know what Leona is planning, but thinking of your unique magic, how it would help you get a one-up on him, made you delighted. Like sweet revenge, like balancing the scales of the world. You feel justified because you feel hurt and you never saw what was so good about the higher road. Not when people always made sure to kick you back to the bottom. 

But then you take a step back. And looking into the burnt remains of the bonfire, something else comes into view for you. Suddenly all malicious glee steps back in the presence of your immature hope. 

"....Hey, Leona."

"What?"

"Why'd you call me this late, though?"

He says nothing. The silence is very obvious and you realize you have somehow caught a criminal in the act.

"You could have called me about this in the morning. Why'd you call me now, though?"

Still, nothing. The lull in his bravado makes your heart pound because it's so new. Your ears perk up as you hear him move quickly and you act fast.

"Don't hang up!" You order him, " _Don't._ I swear if you do, I'll just keep calling until you answer."

He growls on the other end, but you don't let it intimidate you. Instead you feel fear and excitement dance in your chest, actions speaking louder than words. 

"This…this wasn't an excuse was it? To call me?"

"Don't be so full of yourself." He growls out, but it sounds more skittish than scary.

He sighs and you hear the ruffle of his hair, like he was pushing it back. The implications weigh on you and the more answer you try to find, the more it thrills you. Scares you. There's something so _earnest_ in just wanting to talk to another, to find an excuse to have their company. You had thought only you had been the one to think of him and your distance apart but you are mortified to learn it was a two-way bridge. You don't know what this means; sharing mutual feelings with someone is nice, but you and Leona are never _nice_. It upends you and you can't help but wonder; has he thought of you? Did you take space in his heart during this week? How much was it? Was this just momentary impulse, or has he been nursing that emptiness until he finally gave in and reached out for you?

Did he need you? In some twisted sense, does he need you?

(The thought of a lion needing a hyena gives you a prideful delight. Like you were better than him, somehow. That you could _mean_ something from the sole virtue of being your dirty, destitute self.)

"...I couldn't sleep." He finally confesses and you answer him with a laugh.

" _You_? Leona Kingscholar can't _sleep? Seriously?_ "

"Bastard."

"Since when have you ever had trouble sleeping?" You keep laughing. "Is that really it? Can't you even _try_ to lie?"

"I'm hanging up."

" _Don't._ " You tell him sternly, your laughter dying down, "C'mon, don't."

"I should go down there and strangle you."

"I would love to see that. One of the princes visiting our dirty slums." You tease him, and the atmosphere has softened once again into your pleasant if vicious talks, "Oh, _please_ , your Highness, won't you grace us with your presence?" 

"You're insufferable." He finally gives in, the tail end of a chuckle on the edge of his voice and you smile. You don't mean to, but it comes naturally. It's like you're both back at school again, distance be damned, like nothing has changed.

You look up to the sky, moon half-full and stars dotting the sky. You get the long-ago memory of Leona showing you his magic, the sand drifting off with the breeze. He's more open in the night. You wonder if there's something about this hour that does something to him. Like the darkness let him be more vulnerable, let him talk without being seen. Maybe lions are just nocturnal, you convince yourself, and don't even entertain the thought that it had something to do with you.

"I forgot," he says with some gentleness, "how much I hated the palace."

You say nothing. His voice was so soft, cradled right against you when it's through the phone. You can feel the weight of your own breathing.

"That bad?" You ask, like gently opening a door.

"Mm." He mutters, and shifts again, "My brother asked me about the interdorm tournament. About how I got held back. He said it was a shame."

You blink. Something aches in your stomach.

"He said I should have tried harder."

 _Of course he did,_ you answer wordlessly, _Lucky people always say that._

You do not tell him this. Instead you just try to extract yourself of any potential affection.

"He really gets after you, huh? Guess family is the same no matter where you go."

"Ruggie."

You stop. Once again, he ignores your attempts to make this casual, to make this nothing. His voice is so solid and it's oddly soft, like he was trying to impart some hidden message to you. You wish desperately that you are feeling paranoid for nothing, that Leona is just venting without care about who you were.

"Tell me how your break is going." He asks gently. Your heart pounds.

"Why?"

"Maybe it'll put me to sleep. Hurry up."

You try not to let it weigh on you. Try to tell yourself it's nothing. That if he will not make the move, then you will stubbornly stay with your own theories. This is nothing. He thinks you are boring and that is why it will put him to sleep. It is nothing else beautiful or meaningful. You are just a convenient contact to push around, you are just in the right place at the right time.

Just singled out on a whim. It's nothing more than that.

You do tell him. You tell him about all the food you brought back, about how your grandmother and you walked around the neighborhood to pass it out. He listens to your descriptions of all the colorful characters in the slums: the mother and her pack of children and her deadbeat, adult son. The old bickering couple down the street and how the husband still remembers what sort of pastries she likes from the bakery. The night owls that you can hear return home in the middle of the night, and those that work the night shift. How they arrive and depart like clockwork, switching places for either work or rest. The blind old woman at the end of the neighborhood who, when you visited, felt at your face until she recognized you with a girlish glee. The brats at the orphanage who keep insisting you take them riding on a broom, despite the director's disapproving gaze. Leona acts cool listening to all of this, but you keep catching the ends of breathy laughter, like he was trying not to laugh out loud, but could not help himself. He's trying to act cool, but you hear the grin in his voice. And it warms your heart, to hear him distracted, delighted, and yet also so guarded with you that he won't show it. You do not know if that is cute, or heartbreaking. You wonder if you are just adding decoration to him because you see him with rose-tinted glasses.

You wonder if people know Leona the way you know him. You wonder if you are just convincing yourself that you know him, in an effort to be special.

"Family is important to hyenas, I guess." He comments at one point, voice sounding far-away in deep thought, half-comment. You blink. You are staring at one point in your barren backyard, and you vaguely remember burying a mango pit there, right there. You wonder how it's doing there, under the ground. Hopes placed on its possibilities, and yet forgotten under the dirt. Surrounded by nothing to nurture it, so of course nothing grew.

"I've never met my parents."

Leona says nothing. You said it without thinking, and feel separate from yourself. Just thinking about the mango pit. The crickets chirping feel so loud and yet so far away.

"I mean," you blink rapidly, and feel something tighten in your throat, "I mean. I guess I have met them. But my grandmother's always raised me."

He doesn't say anything. You try not to think about it, try to not chicken out. You try not to cry. You're just picturing that mango pit, the food it could have bought you all, and how you failed it.

"...Are they still around?" He asks and you can't tell what his tone is.

"Does it matter anymore?" You reply, laughing in some bitterness.

Another pause. The unspoken words and meanings in these actions just sit there between you two, one in the palace and one in the slums. You're not overthinking it, which surprises you. Maybe it's because you are so exhausted by the excitement of the day that you are too tired to censor yourself anymore. Something childish in you is yelling at you to back off from this, to take it back, make it nothing. But also everyone wants to be seen. To be seen and heard when you have been pushed into the darkness so many times. Maybe you don't care anymore if he has any need for it. Maybe you are just proudly showing yourself and your weaknesses to him in some defiance. This is me. Take it or leave it, this is me. 

"I think," Leona finally steps in, "it's normal to miss them. And normal not to."

"Yeah?"

"Sometimes I remember my father." He says simply, "And sometimes I don't."

"...The past king?"

"Yeah."

"How was he like?"

You remember the old history lessons in your elementary school days, but know that has no bearing on this now. You know Leona's memory is more important at this moment. He chuckles deeply, and it makes you smile involuntarily.

"Noisy."

You burst out into a boyish laughter, incredulous. "You punk!" you accuse of him, and wonder if he's smiling now with his fangs. Some tension seems relieved between you two, like the slack in a tight rope, and you wish you were there. Suddenly you have the very silly urge to hold him while you talk, to feel his voice from his chest. You miss him. In your own fragile way, you miss him.

"He always liked Farena more." He admits to you with a tired voice, that was used to this, "Because he was the first born. Parents always say they love their children equally but even kids can tell."

"Does it matter if you were second born though?"

He scoffs and you can tell you have brushed against an old wound.

"I wonder sometimes." He says simply and will not elaborate. You can tell, and so decide to switch topics.

"Hey." You instead say, strength returning to your voice, "It's your turn."

"Huh?"

"Tell me how your break is going."

" _Huh_?"

"You heard me. I wanna hear from you now."

"Why the hell would I do that?" He asks, annoyed, returning to his usual prickly self. You are not intimidated by it, instead you feel some happiness at the hint of it.

"You woke me up at this godawful hour. At least make it worth my time." You mock him. You hear his growl and you cannot stop smiling.

"Persistent bastard."

Extracting information out of Leona was that same digging for a vein of water. Trying to get him to give when he was the same hard-headed bastard as always. You pester and pester him until finally he starts talking of his own volition. You find that living in the palace had a lot of rules and etiquette, that you both laugh and gripe about. The palace life doesn't suit him at all, you come to find, and tell him as much. He complains about his sister-in-law and you tease him about how much stronger she is. That there may be just _one_ person in this world that can get him to cower. He takes all your teasing with the same empty threats and hostility as before, but you like this. Shared vulnerabilities. The people you were at school and at home. Differences and similarities. In the end, sleep deprived and comfortable, the conversation travels and winds down a path of nothing. Just unguarded chatter and ease. Personalities matching perfectly in a synchronicity of shared time and presence.

You actually don't know what you ended up talking about. And maybe that's not the important part. What's important is that in the middle of talking, you hear a faint snore. You call his names a few times, to no avail. You realize he has fallen asleep.

You sit there, five in the morning, feeling both delighted and vulnerable. You laugh softly, shaking your head.

"Good night, Leona." You tell him softly, and hang up. Your body and mind feel exhausted from exertion, but it's a pleasant sleepiness. You walk back inside, trying very hard not to think. As soon as you hit the bed you drift off to sleep. In the morning you will endure your grandmother's scolding for sleeping in, and lock these feelings, this conversation, deep into your heart. You will feel two ways: that one, it was so precious, almost beautiful, that you don't ever want to forget that conversation. Two, you will feel terribly uneasy at it. That you feel you must lock it away for the danger it brings. Honesty and sweetness. A treasure, and a threat.

What you do not know, what he refuses to forget, is that after you hung up, Leona slowly opened his eyes. He paused on your words, your farewell. And it settles on him in sweet reverence. Quieting a storm in his heart you have yet to know.

For once, lying there, he felt like he was home.


	9. Problems to Fix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're beginning the second half of the story here and finally getting into chapter 2 territory. Hope you guys enjoy!

Your second year at Night Raven College starts with the same noise as the first, just with different context. Your peers at Savanaclaw all catch up with you and each other. You trade stories about your holidays back and you share the same gripes about being reminded of the tournament. Almost all of you got the same treatment from loved ones; being asked, what happened? It was over in the blink of an eye. There is, on the surface, the happy-go-lucky annoyance of students sharing the same annoyances, the same shame. You all alternatively laugh it off, and make Malleus your shared enemy. There is also the undercurrent of tension; that you cannot tell if everyone is entirely joking or somewhat serious. You are a wounded pack, and you are a rotten people. You all casually agree that if you had the chance, you would seek revenge. But Savanaclaw's negative feelings are not fueled by any further approval, so you don't think about it too hard. It's not as if you, yourself, weren't feeling aggravated either, anyway.

You do not go to see Leona first because you are staying casual about it. As soon as he texts you to come over though, you practically sprint, and when you get there, you pounce on him. There is not a lot of room for talk when you two reunite. Instead you cover him with kisses and bites, and shower him in bold flirtations and teasing. He asks if you want to take the lead this time. At first you assume you misheard him, but he confirms for you coolly. You seem eager enough to him, and he was tired from the trip back. You don't examine a gift for what it is, and you make Leona yours in savage affection. It will be the first time of many, because you are a couple who don't sweat the details. The expressions you get out of him are so rare, and nothing like him, and everything you wanted and more. 

When you are done, you are just a pleased pile on the bed, snuggled up and ecstatic. You feel comfortable there. That talk over the phone had you ruffled for a few days, but it was nice to come back to this. Just the physical part of it all, the mutual chase for pleasure. You think you like it because neither of you had to talk during any part of it. Like it came so natural to your relationship, without baring souls or navigating around each other's edges. It feels mature. It feels requited.

Safe.

He plays with your hair for a bit, but you notice when his fingers begin to go still, the equal breathing of his chest. Your eyelids flutter awake, and you frown. You tap him on the chest, and stir him awake.

"Hey," you complain to him, somewhat pouting, "don't fall asleep on me here."

"I'm not." He growls noncommittal.

"You better cut that out this year." You tell him, propping yourself up on your elbows and looking down at him, "Don't go sleeping through all your classes again. At least _try_ to pass this year."

He sighs, very loudly and dramatically. You roll your eyes at it, and it's like nothing has changed. Your initial passion wears down into the same back and forth. You bicker about nothing, and all the things you worried about, feared during the break, feels unfounded. Like you were just a kid scared by your own shadow.

He doesn't tell you about the plan at first. You still don't know if it's because he still wasn't sure if he could trust you or if he's just someone who makes sure a plan is well-thought out before sharing it. It should be stated, when he does tell you, you did not agree out of some lovesickness. You are just another hateful thing refusing to play a game that was rigged against you. Leona did not manipulate you; he just found a kindred spirit, a vengeful spirit, who knew his same hunger.

Instead, the conversation comes after you win his approval. Prove your anger to him. You pass his test when you first show him your viciousness.

When you first speak to Malleus Draconia.

You can count the number of times you've spoken to Malleus on one hand. He's not exactly a people person and certainly not someone who blends into a crowd. Barring your different grade levels, he's just not someone who makes many personal appearances. You know to fear him; you remember him from the magifit field. The second time you actually got to talk to him was after that whole ceremonial robe spectacle, where Leona almost got you caught in the cross hairs of some dragon fire. You're not surprised he snapped at him; Leona is such an overwhelmingly prideful guy, but you guess you got yourself to blame too for dragging him along. You naively thought you were bringing back-up but really you were just bringing oil to the fire. Well, that's neither here nor there. It should just be stated you never stopped feeling wary of Malleus after that fiasco. Grandma always told you to duck your head to the powerful, and Malleus warranted full on groveling. You don't feel ashamed of it because that's like ridiculing someone for not shoving their hand in a fire. You're shrewd but you're not _stupid_ , you know.

Which is why it's surprising when the third time you talk, you develop anger out of your fear.

It was raining.

You watch the rain drip off the roofing, holding a plastic bag of drinks in one hand, dejected and tired. You forgot to check the weather this morning. You had woken up late, had to wake up Leona who _also_ woke up late, and forgot to bring an umbrella as a result. Well, it's just as fine you think. Your umbrella is an embarrassingly beat up thing anyway, full of holes and jagged with broken metal. Well, it's better than running through the rain without one, but you guess it wouldn't have helped anyway. Still, this is such a hassle. Leona asked you to bring him that new drink from Sam's shop after classes, but here you are. The mirror room is a long run from here and you're wondering if it's worth the sprint. Could just make him wait. Yeah, he'll get all fussy but it's kinda cute when he gets fussy anyway.

You don't sense him. It's not even that you were too distracted; he's just _like_ that.

"Oh," he says with his deep voice, "how troublesome."

You nearly jump out of your skin and turn to look. Malleus is dark, covered in the shadows of the awning, befitting of the gloomy, misty air, intimidating with height and with stature. He's a perfect silky silhouette, his horns curved like ink lines, his hair impossibly black. If there was anything bright about him, it was his sharp green eyes studying the weather, focused and fierce with an otherworldly color. He looks down at you in half-attention, like he was regarding a flower on a path. It's hard to describe Malleus to other people; sometimes you didn't even have to hear him talk. Just the way he stood, the way he carried himself explained enough about him, both supernatural and noble. Entirely out of place in this school and especially next to you. You blink, and it registers to you that he's really here. Your words fail you, because you feel so small. Maybe it was the rain; for some reason it feels like the air is loose, like being lost in a dream.

Enough time passes that you realize late he is trying to make small talk. You gulp.

"Y-yeah." you laugh nervously, "A real headache."

He blinks. He slides his eyes away from you, back to the horizon, and you let your shoulders relax a bit. You feel stupid for what you said, but also you have no idea what to say. What do you say to _Malleus Draconia_? You have been nursing a revenge-fueled wound, but having him here was a whole other thing. He must not even recognize you, you think. How could he? You were only on that field for a few minutes anyway, _that's_ just how strong he is.

You dare a few glances his way. His school uniform is impeccable, his arms folded in front of him like a king surveying his land. He taps a finger against the inside of his forearm, the leather of his gloves shining dull in bare light. You notice he doesn't have an umbrella and you find that a little funny. That even a fey prince could be bothered by the rain.

"You forgot it?"

"Sorry?"

You clam up immediately, regretting your impulsive question. But he's looking down at you again with those bright green eyes and you realize there's no way out of this other than to go forward. You motion weakly to his hands, and gulp again.

"I mean, you forgot your umbrella?"

"Oh," he responds coolly, "Yes. I wanted to go out for a walk but didn't check the weather. Lillia is coming to fetch me, though."

Lillia. _Oh_ , you think, _right_. Diasomnia's vice dorm leader. Sounds familiar to you, like something Leona would make you do too. For some reason you're surprised to hear he needed to check the weather. You're not sure what you were expecting, as if fairies didn't just _instinctively_ know those things, but hearing that he had to do the same thing as you surprised you. 

"You don't have yours either."

"Huh?"

"An umbrella." Malleus clarifies. You wonder if he can sense how nervous you feel right now, because he's keeping his voice steady and soft. You chuckle again, rethinking your strategy to just make a run for it.

"Yeah. Woke up late." You scratch the back of your head, "Wouldn't have done me no good though, to be honest."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, it's real beat-up. Might as well use my blazer." You sigh, just chattering nervously to fill the space, "I'm just thinking of making the sprint."

"To Savanaclaw, right?"

You pause, but realize that of course he would make that guess. Your armband. You shrug, and nod, head ducked down. You watch the puddles of the courtyard, where the grass has sunk in, the droplet's waves expanding and fading. You dare another glance at him, but do not raise your head. You think very childishly what nice leather shoes he has. Shiny and well-kept. You remember how Leona accused him of wasting people's time when he rarely goes out anyway. At the time you thought it was just Leona slinging insults again, but you're looking at those immaculate shoes and thinking they probably don't get worn a lot. They look so nice next to your worn out old sneakers. You feel an overwhelming pressure of something, but you can't name it. You're just thinking of those nice shoes.

"...I thought I recognized you from somewhere."

You look up, surprised. Malleus is not warranting his half-gaze at you anymore. Instead you are surprised to find him looking at you straight on. He is handsome, and sharp with angles and bearing. He smiles subtly, and you struggle to name what he is trying to convey.

"You were with Kingscholar that one time, yes?" He asks, "With my robe."

"Oh, that's-!"

"No, it's fine." He reassures you gently, "You're not the one who started the fight. Don't feel responsible for _his_ actions."

The way he said ' _his'_ was laced with some eruptive offense, like he wanted to say more but was restraining himself. It dawns on you what a strange situation you find yourself in, in between two princes and their minor squabbles. How's that for a hyena from the slums?

Still. Doesn't change how you feel around him. You rub the back of your neck, looking away again.

"Yeah, I'm sorry for that guy, you know how it is. Can't really reign in a lion, huh?"

"Are those drinks for him?"

You glance down to the plastic bag and hold it up in question. You nod. Oddly enough, Malleus breaks his façade somewhat, and frowns, his eyebrows knitting in worry. It may look soft, but combined with his royal bearing, it looks more like distaste.

"Honestly, for him to send you out here like this. He really doesn't have manners."

You say nothing. Your mind goes blank, like some crack on the edge of a mirror. It's not the first time someone has bad-mouthed Leona to you but it feels different somehow. It's not even that he's wrong, but still something begins to burn. You're sure someone would call that love for you. Paint it in pretty pastels and soft edges, saying you were defensive for a man you've come to know. But it's not that. We have to say this as many times as it takes, because you will not change: you are not a good person. You are not in love.

The lull in the conversation is very obvious in the wake of such a negative statement. He must be aware of this too, and sighs delicately, looking out onto the rain soaked field in tired embarrassment.

"...I was told that I am attending this school for a reason." Malleus begins explaining, unprompted, "I'm heir to the throne so I need to gain more experience. I suppose I can understand that. A king should be worldly to be wise."

You're not really sure why he's telling you this. What's with rich brats wanting to explain themselves to you? Because of your foul mood all you can see this moment is with an irritated stance. You're listening only because he is holding audience, and because something innocent in you, naïve with revenge, is curious to hear from the monster who haunts your life. Malleus is hard to read; you can tell he's trying his best, just as much as you can tell this is nothing for him in another sense. You cannot make heads or tails of his intentions or his message.

"But I don't know." He shrugs, "I can't find any patience for him. I know he's a prince, but he doesn't even _try_ to act like it. It's like he feels the world owes him despite not earning it."

You bristle, and for once you feel the very primal urge to lash out at him.

We again must stress, this was not for Leona. Instead, what's getting to you is the idea of having to _earn_ something. Coming out of Malleus' mouth, all you could think was that it sounded like a curse, cast for the sole reason of pettiness.

"My apologies," Malleus addresses you, voice softening, "What is your name again?"

It pisses you off that he asks so cordially. Suddenly your fear is sharpening into something hot and wild.

"Ruggie."

"Ruggie." He repeats like trying it out for the first time, "Thank you for last time. It was kind of you to bring my robe."

 _I didn't do it out of kindness_ , you want to spit at him, _Don't thank me for bullshit you came up with._

You are used to people assuming the worst of you, but Malleus' kind misunderstanding makes you angrier. You don't know why. Wouldn't someone be happier to be misinterpreted as a hero rather than a villian? Shouldn't you be grateful for this? Your heart stirs with some agitation, but you cannot name it just as much as you cannot catch it. You are just suddenly irritated with him, like he rubbed against an old wound without thinking. Perhaps what angers you is how casually it's done, without malice, and without thought. That someone could be casually cruel and give you no reason to bite back without reflecting badly on you.

The air shifts, drawing you from your thoughts. The misty air tightens with the presence of magic, and he appears in a cloud of dark bats, that dissipate into the air as soon as they are seen. Lillia makes you jump, as he hangs upside down in the air, in front of you two, all smiles, a dark umbrella under his arm.

"Malleus!" he greets and then blinks as he notices you, "Oh, you have a friend with you?"

Your heart beats fast, your ears reared back in shock, but you say nothing. Your words fail you again. The word 'friend' sticks out to you, obviously awkward in this setting. Malleus shrugs beside you.

"We both got caught by the rain." He explains simply. Lillia rights himself, his small feet descending delicately on the ground. The coat hanging off his shoulders billows out prettily, like flower petals. You have to remind yourself what kind of students are a part of Diasomnia; expert wizards with powers so great they just flaunt it like it's nothing.

"Really! Imagine my surprise when you called me." Lillia looks at you, grinning, chattering like a good-natured parent, "Heir to the Valley of Thorns forgets his umbrella. Imagine that!"

You wonder if you should joke with him, or if he's just talking to hear himself talk. Malleus holds his gloved hand out for the umbrella, but he surprises both of you after he takes it. He grips the dark handle, but then holds it out to you. You look down at it dumbly and then back up at him. His face is still placid, looking down at you in elegant acknowledgment. 

"Take it. You forgot yours too, right?"

"Huh?" You scramble, "W-Wait, no, I couldn't-"

"It's fine." Malleus reaches forward a bit and you flinch as he grabs your hand. He does not do it roughly, but just the fact of Malleus grabbing you is enough to shock you. His gloved hands feel smooth against you, and they are faintly warm. He places the handle in your palm, and gently curls your own fingers around it.

"It's no good to leave you like this." Malleus informs you, "Even if you're from another dorm, this is the least I can do as a dorm leader."

You flush. You are speechless. It's not even that he's being rude. You know rude. You play around with it all the time, swapping barbs and comebacks like it's a game with people. No, what shocks you the most about this is just how considerate it is, how cordial. You're not used to polite and so you freeze up in the face of it. You're coming to terms with being treated nicely, and that's when the anger is fiercer. Him being nice to you begins to _offend_ you.

"Don't worry about returning it." Malleus instructs you, and turns back towards the courtyard, "I have plenty more back home."

You watch him in awe as he looks up at the rain. The air sparkles with magic, and he waves his arm above him in a clean arc. He walks forward and you watch in amazement as the rain bounces off, like an invisible barrier surrounds him. He beckons Lillia forward with a nod of his head, and Lillia looks back at you with a smile.

"Be safe getting back to your dorm." He tells you, and waves. They both cross the courtyard side by side, dark figures in the grey rain. In between the sound of rain drops you catch a snippet of conversation between them, distant but domestic.

"That was nice of you to do, Malleus." Lillia dotes. Malleus does not look back at you or down at him. He only looks forward.

"Like I said," he shrugs, "I have plenty more."

And they disappear into the fog, like ghosts that were never really there.

You stand there, still holding his umbrella in one hand, and the cheap plastic bag of drinks in the other. The plastic handles have begun biting into the insides of your fingers, and your knuckles ache. You look down at the umbrella. It's a very nice umbrella. You open it in front of you, and it snaps open in a strong _thwap_. The raindrops' sounds harshen against the black canopy. The metal spokes are strong and sturdy, the black fabric looks incredibly expensive. Even the handle looks like something befitting of a prince; it's not exactly wood. It's jet black and slick and it occurs to you that it's made of horn. Must have been pricey, you think. Your mind is blank except with this thought. You walk forward, shaded from the rain, the puddles seeping water through your cheap shoes. And you keep thinking of him: Malleus is so impeding, he cannot help but leave an impression no matter how long he stays in a place.

You're thinking of his nice shoes. You're thinking of his nice umbrella. _I have plenty more at home._ And you keep coming back to his display of magic, how with the sweep of an arm he didn't need something like this. That's all it took for him; didn't matter if he forgot his umbrella. All he needed was the wave of a hand.

Your mind begins to bubble, like hot lava. Bullshit, you think. What fuckin' bullshit. Didn't even need to call Lillia out here. Didn't even need this umbrella. Gave it to you cause he felt like it.

Because he thought you were nice.

Because he thought you _earned_ it.

God.

What fuckin' bullshit.

* * *

"...And can you believe it! He didn't even need the stupid thing!"

Of course, just as soon as you came back to Savanaclaw you launched into a tirade about the whole encounter to Leona. You didn't even think twice before you began to rant about it. Leona was surprised at it, just as much as he was surprised to see such an expensive umbrella in your hands. It's raining in Savanaclaw too; the rains here are more musty, but just as grey and drab. Leona is watching you from his balcony table, the chess set up before him. You caught him in another independent match when you came in. He's cooled into just listening now, leaned back in the chair, taking leisurely sips of the drink you brought him. You're being rude because Malleus' umbrella, closed now, was still dripping wet from the rain. You're trailing it all over the floor as you pace angrily, regaling the story. You left raindrops in your wake on the way here too, like a careless animal with its tracks. It's just burning at you. It pisses you off and you can't shake yourself of the anger.

When you're done, Leona just watches you over the top of the drink bottle, and swings his tail back and forth. He smirks.

"Aren't you lucky, though?" He asks you, snide, "That lizard did something nice for you?"

" _Ugh_. I don't know. It's just so-"

"Hey," Leona cuts you off and leans forward. He holds his hand out, "Let me see that thing."

You stop mid-track and look down at him, still mad. Leona's face is just studying you, no cocky smirks or impatience to be found. You sigh and jut it out to him like an impertent child. He takes it, and examines it casually.

"...Damn. This _is_ nice." He scoffs, "Well, what else do you expect from a prince? What, you don't want this?"

"...I don't know. That's not it."

"Thought someone like you would be happy to get to pawn something like this."

He's not exactly wrong. The thought crossed your mind on the way here, in between your racing emotions. But you struggle to explain it to him because you, yourself, cannot rationalize it either. You look away, shake rain from your wet shoes mindlessly. You impulsively decide to just dry them on the balcony and lean over to shrug your feet out of them. You shrug.

"I mean, it's not the umbrella. I mean, like." You sigh loudly, and look up immaturely, walking barefoot to the balcony, holding the wet shoes to your side glumly, "I don't know. What he said about us pissed me off."

"Us?"

"I mean not just you." You wave that off easily, "But I guess, that one comment. How I was 'nice'."

Leona says nothing. You feel tongue-tied, frustrated with both a mystery and your own nerves. You leave the shoes on a dry corner of the balcony, rude without asking permission. Your feet are cold from the tile and the climate. You feel skittish like you've been caught red-handed but you don't even know your crime. You are just reflecting on those nice shoes, those nice words, a thing of this world that's not even close to your level. Malleus Draconia and all his privilege and all his power. Offhand with his kindness in deciding who you were and how he would treat you. You frown and look down. Your ankles and feet are ghostly pale in the grey light.

"...It just pisses me off."

For a few moments there is silence between you two. All there is, is the sound of soft rainfall. That's also the difference with Savanaclaw's rain; it's softer somehow. On campus it's harsher, coming down in torrents (maybe because the school is on an island? Is that why?) But here it's like a gentle shower, giving back to the world in sweet gift, like the beginning of something new. You don't know how to describe it. It's easy to fall asleep to. It reminds you of home and it makes moments like this more vulnerable. Safe.

Leona leans back and places the umbrella to the side. You don't look up at him, but he manages to get your attention.

"Hey," he tells you, "play a match with me."

"Huh?"

You look up and he's looking at you sideways, in profile as he leans the umbrella against a pillar. His green eyes are serious and he glances at you in half-regard. He motions his chin back to the table, the tendons in his neck strong and taut.

"Sit down. Play a match of chess with me."

You blink. It comes out of nowhere so you take a while to register what he's saying.

"...Huh?" You say rudely, " _Why_?"

"You're in a bad mood." He explains and leans back, "Let's play a match to get your mind off of it."

"I don't even know how to play." You whine, feeling lost in a bizarre situation. "Why should I?"

"If you're in a bad mood I can't relax." He sighs, beginning to lose patience, "I'll tell you how to play. Just sit down already."

You flush at this confession. It's not even an incredibly embarrassing one, but you still feel mortified from hearing it. 'Can't relax'. You can't tell if you feel more embarrassed for yourself or for Leona but you know it was a sweet thing to say, and you don't know how to respond when it's said so shamelessly like that. You realize you will have to either confront that or do what he says and just sigh. You throw your arms up in surrender, rolling your eyes, but do as told. You sit across from him and the sound of the rainfall is louder there, but still muted by its own pressure. You are a perfect opposite of him, sitting cross-legged on the chair in contrast to his regal position of sitting back, in perfect posture. Leona regards you in haughty attention and then surprises you by leaning forward and resetting the board. You've seen this chessboard plenty of times cleaning his room so it feels odd to use it for its intended purpose. The pieces glint dimly in the bare afternoon light. He explains each piece to you as he replaces them, black and white, their moves and their purposes. You suddenly feel very stupid sitting there; games in the slums are more simple, more active. The more he explains to you, the more it's lost on you, all its complexities and need for strategy.

"...Do you just wanna make fun of me?"

"What?"

You look up at him, still pouting. He's holding a pawn between his fingers, sleek black, as he's about to place it back on your side.

"You know I'm not gonna win, right? Why make me play? I'm not any good at this kind of stuff."

Leona grins at you, gleefully showing off his fangs.

"You haven't even started and you want to run already?" He mocks you, "Do I scare you that badly?"

"Oh, get off it." You sneer, feeling childish at his mocking. "I'm just saying what's the point of this?"

He sighs, and twirls the chess piece between his fingers, thinking on how to answer you. He looks up, and at first you think it's done out of exasperation, but realize late he is deep in thought.

"...You never learned this in the slums, did you?"

"'Course not."

"But haven't you learned other things?"

You stop. Like seeing the rustling of grass, you start to sense a message in his words.

"You're a hyena, not a lion." He chuckles at you darkly, like laughing at you or with you, "So don't try to be one. Do you get it?"

You blink. Your bad mood is calming in the presence of structure and acknowledgment. You wiggle your toes and look away, subdued and trying to piece together what he was saying.

"...Yeah, I think so."

"Good." He agrees, and places the pawn in its rightful place for you. The stage is set; you study the figures placed for war. When you've seen this set before all you thought was how much it must've cost. It looks just as overtly costly as Malleus' umbrella did. Like it didn't _have_ to be that expensive, but it was only because the buyer was used to a certain lifestyle. But now the board looks different to you, it's uses explained, it's battlefield familiar. Leona lets you go first, and you make the average beginner's moves in response to his expert level ones. You don't dare to ask him to re-explain anything, even if some of it is lost on you. He corrects you a few times; the knight can only move in this direction. You can take out my piece here. At a point you get annoyed with him and tell him to just let you figure it out. He laughs at this, and does as told. It's noticeable how long you take to decide your moves in contrast to him. You take minutes at a time, studying the field long before finally deciding. In response he only takes a few seconds. The air is tense. You begin to feel the familiar agitation of someone clearly out of his depth and clearly headed for loss. 

And then, under pressure, you finally realize you are playing all wrong. It doesn't even take you long. You're just that sort of person.

"...You know," You tell him, your tone casual, "I think that's why it pissed me off too."

You reach forward, and move a pawn. He responds quickly and takes out one of your pieces.

"Oh?"

"About Malleus, I mean." You explain, "I think I'm mad at him because he didn't treat me like a hyena."

Leona laughs at this sadistically, and it would sting you if you were a weaker person. Instead you notice how he crosses his arms, how his eyes squint when he laughs like that.

"What's this? I thought you hated when people looked down at you."

"Of course I do. But being called 'nice' feels so much more insulting."

You make another move. As soon as you pull back your hand, Leona leans forward and makes his move. You expected as much.

"What's with that? Because he doesn't know the real you?"

"Yeah. That's exactly it."

Leona looks up at you in half-interest, his green eyes sparkling with some attention. You look at him seriously, and then ease into a gutsy smirk.

"It's like he lives in his own world." You go on, shaking your head, "I hated what Lillia said to him. 'That was so nice of you'. It makes me sick. A sheltered prince like that just assuming things about people and being congratulated for it. It's so stupid."

"...He was looking down on you."

"Of course he was. I don't need pity." You hover your hand between two pieces, and then settle on which one to sacrifice. Leona immediately does away with it. "And I don't need him using me like that."

"You think he was using you?"

You sigh at this, and lean back, crossing your arms. You study the board, keeping a steady eye on the sea of black and white, noticing just how unbalanced it's become. Leona has made himself a nice little pile of your pieces already and you survey what you have left. _Now_ you're getting in the swing of things; you begin to devise a strategy supplied by your own skill. You reach forward and move a rook at the far end of the board. Leona quirks an eyebrow at this, but makes his move in turn. Without thinking or speaking, you both begin to smooth into a strange sort of rhythm. Something back and forth, built on the foundation of knowing each other.

"I don't think on purpose. And you know that pisses me off even more." You confess, "That he doesn't even realize he's doing it."

"Hm." Leona concedes, "I think I can understand that."

"Yeah?"

He looks to the side in thought, and you appreciate how he takes his time. Makes the game easier for you when he gives you time like that. He shrugs, attempting some nonchalance in this conversation.

"It's insulting on its own when they do it without thinking. Like they're not taking it as seriously as you, right?"

"Exactly!" You exclaim without thinking, just happy that Leona can put it in words for you. You take in a deep breath, let loose a tired sigh, "He didn't have to do something like that, but he just did because he felt like it."

"You're a real whiny guy, huh?"

"I can't help it." You pout, taking no offense at his words, "I can't stand honest people like that. I can't trust them. Like he's strong. We agree on that, right? He's stupidly strong."

"Yeah."

"So he should just act like it. It's bad enough he has it better than the rest of us. I don't need his pity while he's at it."

"So what? He does something nice for you and now you hate him? Is that what you're telling me?"

You stop. You realize how deep he is digging into you, pulling out your feelings and your spite for you. Leona is easy to talk to because you know the sort of person he is. In it for himself. Self-assured. Always got some objective if he actually cared enough to. You're starting to get a hold of the conversation, like identifying the warning markings on a snake's back. Finally getting what his aim was here. You flick your eyes up at him, relieved to see he was still sitting prideful and steady. He hasn't caught on to anything. Good.

"It's not that." You confess, and smile again, "It's not Malleus. It's all of it."

"Oh?"

The wind whips outside, rainy and fierce.

"Do you remember the first time we met?"

Leona studies you. He looks to the side again, just as you had predicted. Being reminded of something like that would bring out anyone's sentimental side. He shrugs. 

(You take the moment for what it gives you.)

"You mean when I tried to give you my uniform?"

"Yeah."

"How can I forget? You were such a brat I wanted to kill you there."

You laugh at this. He, too, has begun to smile ruefully.

"That pissed me off too. Don't get me wrong, I'm not someone who turns down handouts." You lean forward and move another piece. His attention is back on the board, eyes alert with your movement. "But it's like it was nothing for you. It's the same for Malleus; he can do that stuff just 'cause he feels like it and gets congratulated for it. I'm sick of it."

Leona is staring at you straight on. You already made your move but he has yet to respond, more focused on your words. You look down with some smiling grimace, like hearing a bad joke.

"I'm tired of being someone's problem to fix."

Your words sit heavy in the air, all your exposed grievances and hatred. You do not feel shame, but instead some stoked fire in your chest, vicious and hungry. It's strange. You thought you would be hesitant to show this side of yourself to Leona, but it's like you knew he would understand. Like you knew this is what he wanted to hear, in exchange for some retribution. It's all true; how you are a burden in the eyes of society, to be fixed with a privileged helping hand. To have to graciously thank those who saw fit to bestow charity upon you. That you will either be a villain or a pity case, but always dependent on how someone more important than you judged you. That you could not exist without the decision of others. That your voice was not your own, and all that mattered was how deeply you could bow your head.

And you're sick of it. You look down at that chessboard, the fanciful game that was too complicated for your poor self. Leona is ready to respond to your last move, but it happens slowly. It dawns on him and his eyes dart around the board in creeping realization. When you see his eyes widen in surprise, you smirk at him cruel and loving.

"Ruggie-"

"What's with that look?" You tease him, "You told me to play like a hyena, so I did."

You reach inside of your blazer and bring out all of his chess pieces you'd been swiping up and hiding. You drop them on the middle of the board in front of him. They clatter and ruin the formation, the entire game. All his strategy had fallen apart with your crooked ways, and they lie there, a pile of his losses from your immature and vile self. The colors are mixed together in chaos, black and white, no clear winner if the game had been rigged.

He stares for a moment, unblinking. And then he begins to laugh, incredulous and amused. He shakes his head at you, not believing the sight in front of him, and entertained by your gutsy strategy. 

"...You're such a bastard."

"So you've told me."

You are on the edge of thanking him. For what, you don't know. Changing your mood. Hearing you out. But a very sweet and tender feeling takes place in your heart in this moment, where you feel strong as much as you do terrible. But you hold back this impulse, instead choosing savage curiosity over subdued complacency. You lean forward, and tilt your head at him, cocky and enamored.

"Leona," you tell him, "Cut the act. What are you planning already?"

He receives this with coolheaded stoicism, and then melts into a self-assured smile. You feel proud to be looked at like that, and something warms in your chest in response, like seeing the sunlight after a long night. It was also like feeling all your suspicions had been proven right; you _knew_ he had a reason for all of this. 

Leona surprises you; You jump a bit when he reaches forward and puts his hand over yours. It's intimate. He holds it like some lover trying to subtly and powerfully impart heartfelt intentions. At first it reminds you of the same casual lust you two have been playing with, but when you look up at him, you can tell this is serious. He's leaned forward, the grey light subduing him like a lion hidden in the grass. He stares at you with devastating green eyes, and he is smiling with some assured idea. Like things went just as he thought they would. Like you proved him right from the sole basis of being yourself. And he liked that. He was very pleased with that. 

"Ruggie," he says to you for the first time ever, "Do you want to overturn this world with me?"

And hell. How could you refuse after something like that?

He has always been a man after your own heart.

(When he explained it to you, what you remember most was the rain. The raindrops sliding down the window. The cool and chilly air.)

(Him, brilliant and beautiful and unstoppable.)

(And, you.)

(Madly in love with your own potential.)


	10. Breaking on Impact

Neither of you ever take time to get to business. You rarely ever need words either. Sometimes you just grab at each other after settling in for the night, and get right to it. Tonight is no different, and he devours you in the dark, his hand up your shirt, lips on your stomach as you bury your own fingers in his hair. You breathe passionately, happily, and when he reaches up to you he kisses you deeply. Something in this wakes you. It came out of nowhere and maybe that further proves just how subconscious the worry had been for you.

"Leona," you breathe his name, but he either doesn't hear you or ignores you. He kisses you again, and your voice catches in your throat, your mind swimming between mindless thrill to prickling uncertainty. He pushes your shirt over your head, and you comply, lifting your arms for him to undress you.

"Leona."

Another kiss on your collar bone.

" _Leona._ "

" _What_?"

He growls this against your skin and you shiver feeling the hot breath of his anger. He's still kissing your chest as he throws your shirt to the side, and you focus on that as you speak your mind.

"Should we be doing this?"

"Huh? What, you're not in the mood?"

"No." _God, no_ , you think. "I mean, like..."

You struggle to articulate yourself, and he is impatient as he kisses your lips again. You feel unsteady with lust but you muscle through it.

 _"This._ " You tell him on his own lips, "Should we be doing _this_?"

"Doing what?"

"Kissing."

He opens his eyes slowly, blinks as he thinks about your words. You suddenly feel very dumb for saying this, but Leona doesn't show any indication he thinks the same way. Instead he draws back a bit, leans his forehead against yours. Your breathing is still shallow, like you've come up for air in a deep ocean.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know." You shrug, and feel yourself flush in the spotlight. You look away, "I mean, I don't think people usually kiss in these situations, right?"

He says nothing for a while. Implications hang in the air, but neither of you make anything concrete of it. Instead, he just sighs, again. You must be such a hassle for him sometimes. He's always sighing around you.

"You don't like it?"

"I didn't say that."

"Does it bother you?"

You pause on this. You wonder what lovemaking would be like without the kissing. You think about how you feel when he kisses you. It's all so immature, like you're placing importance on things that weren't important at all. Or maybe this _is_ maturity, by laying the boundaries clearly. You don't hate it, you just feel like there are rules you're supposed to be following.

"No." You tell him honestly, dazed with affection and just feeling needy for attention.

"Then who cares?"

He holds you closer, plants another intense kiss on you, fills your head with nothing but him. And you think to yourself, of course. Of course he would say that. You don't know why you expected anything less from him.

* * *

You look up to the moon, drawing his blanket around you closer. You're not frigid, and you're not shy, you're just comfortable. He watches you, reclined, and a little annoyed.

"Ruggie." He tells you, "come back over here."

His grumpy tone is not lost on you, but you ignore it. You're sitting on the edge of the bed and you've stolen the blankets. You continue to study the sky with thoughtful silence.

"Hey, Leona." You ask him, wagging your tail, "Why me?"

"Huh?"

"You could have anyone you wanted in this dorm. So why me?"

The night air is chilly on your bare shoulders. You don't turn to look at him.

The moon is not full that evening.

"...Where's this coming from?"

"I'm just saying, you could do better than a hyena like me."

You don't give him more than this. You don't admit anything to yourself either. Your tone is not sad or mocking. You just watch the night sky, and you're thinking of home.

"...Because I don't want anyone else."

You frown. You begin to feel annoyed.

"That's not an answer. Is it because I work for you? Am I your type or something?"

"Don't be vulgar."

"Then why me?" You dare him, "Why did it have to be me?"

You're getting impatient and hope he is too. You're giving him attitude on purpose. You feel the bed shift and then his hands grabbing at you. He pulls you down, blankets and all, ripping them from your grasp so he can see you. You flush, mad but expectant. He looks down at you, the blanket pulled over both of you. It always ends up like this you think. Like play fighting.

He leans down and kisses you and you take it deeply, like drinking water in a desert. You're breathing heavily.

"Leona-"

"Because it has to be you." He tells you, in a husky whisper, "Because it can only be you."

The rest is lost in kissing, in non-answers, in physical chase for anything but a conversation. You take the lead from him, and manage to muster enough strength to grab him by his broad shoulders and flip you both over. His hair flies with the movement and it's splayed around him like wild brushstrokes, a flurry of rich, warm brown. He takes your kisses gently, surrendering to you in equal eagerness. He loves you tenderly, and to repay him you bite his neck in possessive anger, in passion, in misdirected pride. You wanted to hear him say it just once. You wanted to make him say it to you, force it out of his heart, like that meant something.

You wanted him to admit it just once, but you don't want him to say anything more.

* * *

You still don't remember his name.

You _do_ remember his dorm. It's so funny how you can remember a person by their otherness, the things that differentiate them from you, rather than the more innate and personal aspects. You can remember he was from Heartslabyul, but you do not remember his name. You struggle, even now, to remember what year he was even in. At the time all that mattered was that he was from a different dorm, he was a star player, and he needed to go. You try to feel sorry for it, but you don't. Even now, after everything, you try to feel bad, but it won't come. Like dipping into an empty well. You wonder if you should be ashamed of this fact, or proud of that. That parts of you have hardened in response to exposure, like finding soft hands have turned into calluses.

Once you got everyone in on it, it wasn't hard at all to gather information. The school likes to think of Savanaclaw as nothing but a pack of strong beasts, but even predators stalk their prey before they strike. You orchestrate them easily, because this is not the first time you have cased someone. A long time you notice the tells and traits of an easy target. Distracted, off guard, attack them casually so they don't even notice. You do it all the time when you pick pockets, and here it's not so different. It's easier even, because you're so far from the target. A top rule of picking pockets is don't touch the target if you can manage it. Don't get their attention. Here, it's like a walk in the park. They probably don't even know you're in the room.

Your magic is hard to describe to outsiders. You've known it for a long time now, but it's hard to articulate how it feels. It's not _exactly_ like puppeteering, and it's not _really_ like watching your reflection in a mirror. It's more like a mixture of both, somehow. It's hard to say, because it's like you're connected to them, like some magic static in your bones shared with them. Once again, it's hard to describe. It feels strange to use it day after day, but it also makes you feel unstoppable. You're in an out like a nightmare, inevitable and then gone.

It's easier to talk about it and a whole other thing to actually do it. When you were hashing out the details with the other Savanaclaw members, it was just like you were all in the locker room again, shooting the breeze and cackling at your own ruthlessness. It's a lot of big talk and looking only at the goal. You did not completely realize the weight of what you were doing until you actually had to do it. Like you were impressed at the beginning, and hungry for the ending, but forgot the burden of the middle. You're young. It happens. 

"Ruggie," one of your peers whispers rough and quick, "Do you see him?"

You are underneath a staircase, sandwiched between two Savanaclaw members. To an outsider, you may just look like a pack of thugs chatting out of view of the teachers. Not an uncommon occurrence in this school. They tower over you, and you'd be practically invisible from view unless someone was looking for you. Your ear twitches, listening to footsteps. He should be leaving the library now. Riddle was a terror, demanding top grades from all his dorm members. Not uncommon to find a Heartslabyul student leaving the library around this time.

"No." You admit, your voice also hushed. "I think I can hear him."

You concentrate. You have to be careful. If you do this wrong, you're gonna latch onto the wrong target. They have to be in range, and you have to know their location. 

When you came up with the list with Leona you also did not realize the weight of your words. He didn't want anything too harsh. He'd said it would be a pain if you got caught, but he also kept reigning in your ideas if they got too violent. Big softie, you thought to yourself, with some tiredness and equal fondness. You thought it was funny you came up with the list while you could still hear the chatter and celebration of Heartslabyul's Unbirthday Party in the distance. It's a little ironic your first target was one of them. You came up with a handful of incidents that you could write off as clumsiness. Burning your hand in the alchemy class. Kitchen accident.

Falling down the stairs.

It's just a tumble, you find yourself thinking. Like, just a twisted ankle. It's so weird to think of how you can also soften this, like you had any say in what gravity would do. You're focused, and then you hear descending footsteps. Snippets of a conversation.

"...try-outs for the Magical Shift Tournament are soon, right? Have you thought of a magical exhibition that will appeal to the Prefect yet?"

You breathe. You try to differentiate voices. And you remember, very distantly, a hot summer day.

You remember, because guilt tries to stay your hands. It comes out of nowhere, but it's like a flash and then gone. 

To say it was hot in the slums that day might be a given at this point. It's never cold in that hellhole. Maybe in the late winter evenings but even those were rare. But that day had been hot and intimidating, just like any other day. Maybe you wish it had been different somehow, but those days were also just as common as the weather. You were in the backyard with your grandmother, hanging up the laundry. You were a young, scraggly little thing and your knee was stinging from a scrape you'd gotten earlier that day. It was wrapped up in a clean handkerchief because you had run out of bandages and it was tied tight so your grandmother didn't have to keep bending down to re-tie it for you. It itches. You want to scratch at it, but she swatted at your hand the last couple of times she caught you, so you're starting to learn. You drag the step stool and laundry basket behind you, down the line as you get back to hanging up the sheets. Behind you, your grandmother is on the back porch, sewing up a hole she'd notice on one of her dresses. You notice a hole on one of the blankets too, but say nothing. You make a mental note, at age seven, to fix it yourself the next time she was out.

You hear someone knocking at the front door. Your grandmother tells you to keep at it while she goes to answer it. You wipe sweat from your forehead and your ears twitch as you hear the door opening, and then the familiar voice of the wife from next door.

_I'm sorry to bother you right now…_

You reach down and bring up another bedspread. This one is your's. You know, because it's covered in the faded print of cartoon characters, a warthog and a meerkat. They're your favorite; your grandmother knows this. She got it for you a long time ago.

_I just didn't know where to go…_

_It's fine, calm down, calm down. Come in, I'll put the kettle on._

_No, I'm sorry I can't stay, it's just…_

The familiar struggle of a voice on the edge of tears. More hushed talking. Finally the door closing, and then the release of quiet sobs.

_They said it was an accident, but he's the best worker there. I just don't know how…_

_Shh, shh, it'll be okay._

_It had to be someone, I just don't...Who would…_

You unclip a clothespin from the edge of your shirt where you are storing them, and clip the bedspread in place. Looking at it alongside the other sheets, it looks so small.

_I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I just….the doctor's bill…_

_How much do you need?_

You hear the scraping of a kitchen chair, and the opening and closing of cupboards. Your grandmother is probably grabbing the sugar canister now, the one where she hides all her secret savings. You hear the familiar screwing open of the lid. It's very rare she opens it for your family's problems; she's more apt to dig into it when your other neighbors come to her for help. The young wife is crying now, overcome with emotions. It makes you uncomfortable. It's never good when the adults cry.

_Thank you, thank you. I'll pay you back I'm just so-_

_Nonsense. You don't have to pay me back for anything._

A polite silence as the wife gathers herself. Just the sound of heaving breath, and sniffling.

_...How bad was it?_

Your grandmother asks this with graceful kindness. Another sniffle. The sound of shuffling, and a long pause.

You reach down and scratch your knee.

_They don't know if he'll be able to walk after this._

And then an eruption of crying. It's muffled after a while, like she was cushioned into an embrace. You don't turn to look around. Instead your ear twitches, and then you step down from the stepstool. You drag it and the laundry basket behind you, and get back to work. You know your grandmother would tell you they will wrinkle if you don't do it fast enough.

In the present, you blink. You finally pinpoint him. You whisper your chant, and the connection is immediate. Very quickly, you maneuver your feet like following dance steps. One of the Savanaclaw members catch you before you hit the ground, and above you, you hear someone's cry, someone's stumble, someone else's fall. There is a hurried voice, worry and yelling, asking if the person was okay. A fast descent down the stairs. You hear his pained groans. You do not know his name.

You don't even realize it, but you begin to laugh.

You think, very terribly, that he should just walk it off.


	11. In the Dying Sunset

The morning light gently greets your retreat. You pull on your clothes in the dark dawn, and Leona is still asleep behind you. You feel very far away from yourself right now and you can't really articulate why. You blame it on the fact that you are still waking up.

You look ahead in the distance, at the rising sun. You consider it, briefly, as you tighten your belt. 

A long, long time ago you remember being told a story as a child. That all life begins and ends like the rising and setting of the sun. You wonder why you're thinking that now. You wonder why you feel fulfilled as much as you feel frustrated.

You don't know yet.

You don't know anything.

Leona shifts behind you.

You look behind you, but he's still asleep. His chest is broad and rises and falls slowly, in sleepful rhythm. Lately, you've been staying the night more, ever since you both started this plan. He has been persuasively convincing you to stay after all your planning, and you let yourself be charmed by the attention. You wonder if that makes you special or a side bonus to this whole affair.

When did your feelings for him get so mixed up?

Impulsively you sit on the side of the bed carefully, cushioned into its weight but not stirring him. You'll have to leave soon. You have classes in a few hours. But that's out there, you think. It feels like this room was separate from the whole world, kept behind the bedroom door. You don't have to go there yet. Just for a few minutes, you have him for yourself, in the barest moments of the beginning.

You are thinking two things, half-awake, comfortable, and conflicted. You are thinking it would be best to just go now. That if he saw you still here, he might get the wrong idea. 

You ignore this. Instead you act on your second thought. You thoughtfully reach forward, and brush some of his hair out of his face. He breathes evenly, and your heart aches. You remember him like it was a different person altogether; his ferocity and rotten attitude, formidable strength paired with an acute mind. All the things the world sees of him. At school, at home, and yet it's so different from what he shows you here. You are thinking back to your erratic beginnings and think it is very funny how you have gotten here. In the den of a lion, free to see his sleeping face.

Without thinking, you reach upwards in casual curiosity, and delicately touch one of his ears. It flicks and you draw your hand back in caution, but then see he is still asleep. Courage gets the better of you. Smiling, you reach forward to touch one again.

It's surprisingly soft. For some reason you thought someone as rough as Leona would warrant the same texture. They're pliable and warm, fluffy on the inside and it makes you grin. You are suddenly reminded of his whole incident with Malleus' robe, how you teased him for being cute. His pouting face looking up at you. You've only known him for a year or so, and yet you've made so many memories. 

He moves. It takes you off guard for how loving it is. Still sleeping, he shifts his head closer, leans his cheek softly against the palm of your hand, and lets out a low and happy growl. It reverberates pleasantly like a purr, thrumming against the bed, against your hand.

It is sweet.

And you take your hand away, like touching fire.

Your heart stops. You still don't know why. The brief distraction has lost to your previous anxieties. You think about unconscious actions reacting to similar unconscious actions. You are thinking about how Leona has never made that sound before. Never made it for anyone else before. 

Privileges and special glimpses and 'it can only be you'.

It has been haunting you, his admission of fragility, his words to you that night. 'It can only be you' and 'It has to be you'. At the time you had chalked it up to passionate fervor, born of impulse and lust and tumbling words matched with mood. But you keep examining the non-answer for what it is and what it offers. To be singled out by him, to be told you are the only one who can be there at his side. You want to excuse it as his selfishness again, that your choice had no say in the matter. But instead, you are mature here, you know better. You are just a hyena from the slums, but to him you are more. Only you. Out of everyone, it can _only_ be you. Like he, himself, had no choice in the matter either. And it's the loss of choice that scares you. That neither of you had control over the situation, but could only obey what the heart wants. It's easier to ignore it if you could blame Leona's whims, but you can't. He's just as helpless as you; and for the two of you, people who must maintain their independence, that is frightening.

You get up and grab at the rest of your clothes from the floor. Shrug on your boots. You leave.

You block it out with your targets for the day, your class schedule, the magifit tournament coming up. You think of Malleus Draconia, and deadlines, and hungry children in the slums. You think of your responsibilities. You think of breakfast.

You remember when he left you behind in the botanical garden.

And just like you, he didn't bring it up afterwards.

* * *

It is easier to cast the judgements once one has all the facts. That one can measure a storm when they stand back and see it for what it is. Doing this, you feel as if the villain may have been you this entire time. But you know better, know that a disaster is the domino effect of incompetence. You are not that strong to have orchestrated the overblot all by yourself. You were just another chess piece on his board that dragged him under. Leona was his own poison, his own folly. You just encouraged him every step of the way because you loved your potential more than you loved him. Decided not to see the scars when you were finally within grasp of the sky. And who could blame you? You knew to trust those who knew your pain more than you could trust anyone else. Spoiled prince who was only crying because he didn't get his way. You had no sympathy for that, no matter how many parts of you ached for him. Maybe you did know him, but maybe you were also desperately trying to find a kindred spirit in a drought. Don't mistake a wounded beast for a friend. That he was not capable of still hurting you.

But you feel like the turning point of this came after that dorm leader meeting. You had gotten very good at silencing your own hunger, but there was a moment Leona reached out for you. Like he knew the person he was becoming, and you, sweet oasis, was his last place of respite. A sweet sanctuary to ask for forgiveness or penance. To wake him up to what he was doing and to set him straight.

It sounds very romantic, doesn't it? It's why you rejected him. It's why you tempted him further.

You are not the cornerstone to all of it, of course. The overblot probably would have happened even if you had accepted him. You like to think that, anyway. That a dirty hyena like you wouldn't have been able to save him anyway. It's the more logical conclusion.

But you still go back to that afternoon. And the fact that you can't stop thinking about it answers everything.

The day had played out as usual. You're already full swing into your plan. It wasn't hard at all to order around the rest of Savanaclaw. Just tell them where to go, and they'll go. And your magic, despite previous misgivings, works wonderfully. Like you are conducting an orchestra, you watch them in phantom pantomime, and lead them to their doom. It's not terribly bad, you tell yourself. You've known plenty of people who have faced worse. You have no sympathy, because you never had that privilege. So you don't feel at all bad when you use it in the cafeteria on Grim. Comparatively, that was just a silly prank anyway. And you had harassed Leona to attend the dorm leader meeting as always. Everything had been going just as the day before and before that. By this point, any doubts you had were weakened by the passage of time. But you cannot find Leona after the meeting. You did not worry about this initially; he was known to wander as he pleased and you always had to be the one to fetch him. He was not known for his virtue of consideration. But he texts you to come to the field behind the coliseum. You ask him if he wanted you to bring anything, but he did not. This is when you start to feel a twinge of something.

Maybe he wanted to talk about the plan, you think. Wanted some privacy. By the time you make the trek, the sun is already setting and the whole world is dyed in burnt orange. You don't see him until he sits up from his napping spot. He's a dark silhouette against the bright, dying light. You can make out the shape of his wild hair, his ears, and it takes your eyes to adjust to realize he was watching you. His green eyes were subdued, shaded by the shadows, but still fiercely attentive.

Something grips your heart. You tell yourself it's just fear again.

"Ruggie." He calls first, and holds a hand out, "Come here."

The air smells of fresh leaves in summer air, and the grass rustles as you walk through it. You wonder how many times you will end up here, kept guessing at his intentions. You decide not to overthink it this time. It was not as if you had a say in it anyway.

"What's up?" You ask him casually, awkwardly wondering if you should take his hand, "Don't tell me you ended up skipping that meeting."

He grabs your wrist as you get close enough and brings you down to him. You yelp, and then laugh as he holds you close, hand grabbing at your waist, lips already on you. His grip cushions all your baggy layers against your skinny waist. Some days you like that, the way his hands could entirely circle you. Some days you hate it. But today you are in a good mood because things are going so well. You laugh as you part, and grin at him like a devil.

"Don't tell me you wanted to do something out _here_."

" _Please._ " He scoffs at you, and lets go of you, "Sometimes you're worse than me."

You settle next to him, seeing him retreat from you. It felt strange to just kiss in greeting, but not continue from there. Felt very intimate to you. You decide not to address it out of fear that it would manifest something.

"We talked about the interdorm tournament today." He starts off.

"Oh, yeah? How'd it go?"

He scoffs again, leans back on his palms. His tail swings back and forth in attention. "Annoying as always. Dealing with those guys is always a headache."

"I told you," you begin, scolding again, "you need to earn your place, you know."

"This isn't why I called you."

"No?"

And then it is quiet. Contemplative. The edge of the sun has only begun to sink into the horizon, and the sky is bright orange and filled with soft, pastel colored clouds. The world is not quiet, the campus busy with its students as always. There were clubs and the stragglers off in the distance. Still the both of you are such a distance away that you can only barely hear them even with your trained hearing. Instead you are looking at the gradient of the sunset, and very vaguely it reminds you of the colors of Savanaclaw. 

"The headmaster pisses me off sometimes."

You laugh. That's so like him, to veer an atmosphere into crudeness.

"What'd he do this time?"

"He wants to put that lizard in the hall of fame."

You stop, and look at him surprised. He looks sullen, but serious. Like he knew you would catch on quickly to what this means. You don't even hesitate.

"He can't be serious."

"He is."

"He hasn't even graduated. Why the hell are they giving him that?"

"Don't want him to compete." Leona tells you, his voice edged with the same incredulous anger, "Says he's playing at an advantage."

" _Bullshit_."

"That's what I was thinking."

"You didn't let him, did you?"

"What the hell do you think?" He shoots back, "You really think I was gonna just turn tail and run?"

"Leona, you know what this means right? If he doesn't play, then everything we've been doing-"

" _I know._ " he tells you curtly, but the voice is laced with more meaning than annoyance, "Of course I didn't let him. But he says next year he's going to be added no matter what."

You're quiet. The implications of all of this sink into you, and it's there again, old friend. Helpless against an establishment, blind to your desperation or struggles. Decisions made on your behalf without your say. And even worse, the ticking of a clock.

"You know what this means, right?"

You blink. The world is red with sinking sunlight, and his gaze is heavy on you. You had not considered what would happen if this hadn't worked out. It seemed to always be there in the distance the idea that you had more time. It's an easier way to live when you feel like you have all the time in the world. But a deadline is heavy, it puts fire against one's heels, and you suddenly feel a mixture of fear and desperation.

"This is going to be our only chance." He tells you, finally, and you understand.

You look away back to the horizon. It's not as if you have not been in scenarios like this. Delivered the bad news and being reminded of your place in the world. You've had this type of conversation plenty of times in your life, and learned to receive it the same way. Look on the brightside. Make a plan. Cheer up the person who has come to you with their grief. You are thinking of Malleus Draconia, all his credentials and luck. His strength and his reputation. He probably did not even know. He does not consider himself the root of your problems, you think. He probably does not even remember your name.

You think that's a very nice life to live, to not even remember the names of the people you have beaten. 

"Then we just have to try harder, right?"

He looks at you, in half interest. You smile at him with some vicious persistence like this did not affect you as much as it should. It's posturing, as always. 

"We keep going like we always have. Things are going well, so I don't see why we should stop now." You shrug, tail lazily swinging back and forth against the grass. It rustles behind you.

"Confident, aren't we?"

"You're not?"

Leona does not answer you. You had gotten so used to all his pride and 'fuck-you' energy that you are late to see the hesitation. It's strange to you. Like that evening again where he wanted you to stay. It feels so unlikely to you, that you give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Leona?" You goad him, "You're not?"

"I heard you the first time."

"Then say something." You frown, "You're quieter than a caught mouse."

"If this doesn't work out," He growls, and you cannot tell if he's mad at your teasing or the situation, "if this doesn't work then Savanaclaw will never be able to reclaim its pride."

"Then we just work harder."

"If you get caught this is all over." He reminds you, and you can see a blare glint of his fangs in the corner of your eye, "If someone catches on, it's all over. It'll be worse than when we lost."

"Are you saying I can't do it?" You shoot back, suddenly feeling defensive. You don't take insults like that lightly, but he can see you're missing his point. He looks at you, scowling.

"This isn't about you, Ruggie. Damn it." He sighs, annoyed, and runs a hand through his long hair, "It's about all of it."

You watch him and the tone of his voice makes you pause. It's soft with frustration, weak but angry. He keeps doing this to you, baring things to you, and all you can do is try to catch up. You wish you could draw a curtain on it somehow, like looking away from a confessional. He is dyed in those soft orange hues, and distantly you think of home. It's an inane thought to have right now, but you wonder how he looks back home. It is like taking two separate puzzle pieces in your heart and trying to match them together. Things you know, pieced together. You know you will never see him in the palace, but you wonder, futilely, if your poor slums would suit him.

"You know how this school is like." He continues, looking away again at the sunset, "As soon as they smell blood they'll come for us. Are you prepared for that?"

You blink. You had not considered your own say in it. He was such an inconsiderate person to you that this takes you off guard to be asked your opinion. You think on this, finally given a chance to talk. You pull your knees to your chest, hugging them to you, and place a chin on your knees. You wag your tail back and forth in thought, and reaching inwards you pull out the answer.

"...I'm sick of it." You confess, "I'm sick of all of this, you know."

"Huh?"

"I want to overturn this world with you." You look at him sideways, glaring. "I'm not going to let a coward like you take this from me."

He looks at you wide-eyed. There is a tense silence, and you realize you're not afraid of him lashing out at you anymore. That you don't feel some fight or flight prickling in your veins. And you wonder when you stopped fearing Leona, when the intimidation warmed into understanding. Is it because he keeps showing these parts of himself to you, that you know his weaknesses and strengths, that you cannot be afraid of something you have learned? You are bracing yourself for something, but you don't know what. And then he smirks at you, and chuckles, deep and throaty and a little incredulous. He shakes his head, amused even if still haughty.

"A hyena like you talking to me like that. You're probably the only one with guts to talk to me like that in this entire school."

" _Someone_ has to." You huff, and he just chuckles again. You feel prickly with something, but you struggle to name it. It wasn't anger, exactly, but it still felt bitter, something telling you to step back while you still can.

"You're fine with this? Really? You're not stupid; you know I'm using you."

"I know."

"Then why?"

You blink, and look down at the grass, the long black shadows they cast in the light of the dying sun. You have come at a crossroads in your relationship with him, put on the stage to place a name on its vagueness. You think of all the ways others have seen you two: dorm leader and vice dorm leader, boss and lackey, tyrant and slave. None of it fits. You examine further your own feelings, because you would know your feelings for him best. Friends with benefits. Prince and pauper. Just a strange twist of fate. This conversation has long passed the boundaries of the plan and into something more. 

"I have nothing to lose. You know that." You admit, without turning to look at him, "I want that chance, Leona."

It feels strange to confess things to him without the barrier of your rudeness. But it was the honest truth, showing both your resolve and your unfortunate circumstances. 

"So," he replies immediately, "we're using each other."

This stings at you, like a punch to the stomach. You don't know where it comes from, because it's not the accusation that insults you.

"You really are such a gloomy guy." You say instead, laugh, to shrug off the brunt of it. You are beginning to dread the path this turn has taken, and that instinct is still nagging at you. Turn back here, and now. Nothing of worth will be there if you go forward. You try to think of a way to wrap up the conversation, tidily wrap it up like a present with conclusions and closure. You are not sure if Leona is hinting his distrust of you and whether that frightens you or saddens you. All you know is that he is metaphorically pacing you with some intention you cannot read.

Before you can act, he leans over, and you freeze as he places his weight on you.

He is warm, and not burdensome. You catch the scent of grass in his hair, feel the cushion of his body heat against you. Your breath stops not because you aren't used to this but because it is _different_ now. The sun is barely in the sky now, halfway there and halfway here, like a man with his head above water. The sky is a gorgeous gradient of oranges and reds, the horizon a heavy black streak against the ending sunlight. Behind you, your shadows are long and dark, tall with your presence. They have melded together into one shape, only differentiated by your heights. You breathe, steady and cautious, at the soft closure of him, the hesitant weight. He balances himself with one hand, but still is leaned against your shoulder, like he wants to get closer but is careful with how close he gets. And your heart beats, Ruggie. It aches.

He laughs, again, but this time it is a little shallow, a little empty.

"Maybe," he whispers to you, "Maybe I'm focusing on the wrong thing here."

You say nothing. He reaches his head up then, and you freeze as he nuzzles his cheek against your neck and it hits you. It hits you.

_Oh._

_Oh no._

Your heartbeat and your breathing are so heavy now, like all your existence is the mechanics that allow you to live. Your mind is blank with realization and dread, and you try to find excuses as much as you see the truth. If we can step back a moment here, you are very aware of what this action means. Maybe it is because of your beastly traits, but actions like this speak words for you two. This was intimate, but not intimate in the way you have been. This was more important. This was _trust_.

A lion would _never_ do this with a hyena and you know why and it scares you to know it's being done now.

You think about all of it. All of it. What he's offering here, what you could be. What he _wants_ to be. It's so beautiful, almost sappy, like something out of a fairytale. Maybe you don't need victory. Maybe you could just let it go, find solace with each other, find home. That maybe happiness wasn't found in reputation and conquest, but in another person. In their affection. Now, it's laughable to think of you two as _lovebirds_ . You are honest with each other, scathing, at ends and without giving in. You challenge each other as much as you keep each other in check. You understand him. It scares you, but you think he might be understanding you too. It's _why_ this is working out so well; you lack the mercy, and the bullshitting, and so trust comes from knowing you could never fully trust each other. That you are misfits, pushed into the shadows, angry at your lot in life, willing to break the rules if it is to reclaim yourself. Unafraid of each other. Respect earned and kept. Partnership founded in the same misanthropy you both know is the only thing you can trust.

And it's so beautiful. You do not lead a beautiful life. You will always live with the pain and the wounds and the dirty beginnings. Your existence will never be a comfy one. But he gives you a place to return to. A place to know you. See you.

Want you.

Your face flushes at the extent of it. You wonder if Leona knows this too, or is just on the cusp of realizing it himself. You are afraid of both options, and know you must act while things are still unsaid, vague, when things can still be righted with the lie of ignorance.

Because you know what you are giving up if you go down this route.

What he is giving up.

(You don't know which reason fuels you more.)

"You can do it."

Your voice is sudden in the sunlight. He says nothing, but an ear twitches and you know he is listening.

"You'll be able to pull it off, Leona. You can do it."

You watch the sun finally disappear in deep purples and reds over the edge of his hair. His breath is warm on your throat, like he could rip it out any second.

"Even the King of Beasts worked with the hyenas." You remind him, "You can pull it off, even if you slum it with a hyena like me."

And it hurts.

You say those last words slowly, like a harsh reminder, making sure he heard what you were saying. What you were reminding him of.

It scares you to know why you tell him this. That you do not flinch at the potential of his love, but at what it means if he did. You think of all of his potential, his strengths, the things you admire as much as you respect. It keeps coming back to you, your state in the world, the things you want. You are not sure which of you is the obstacle, which is the problem that holds the other back. Leona belongs to a completely different world than you, and if he really wanted his recognition then he should not be investing himself in lesser things. Similarly, you are too proud to give yourself to a lion on the whims of love. You are so sick of your hunger, and you burn with resolve. You don't want a distraction. You sure as hell won't give that privilege to a person who will always be blind to your hungry nights.

A relationship like that was so pretty, almost innocent, and you know it would hold you both back. That it had no basis outside of dreams. You are not good enough for him.

He is not good enough for you.

(Something in you aches, but you know the meat would be too rich for your poor palate. It would just make you sick.)

Leona says nothing. You watch the clouds, soft and pastel in the sky. You wonder if you have broken his heart. You wonder if a hyena like yourself could ever do such an honorable thing.

He pulls away. You are afraid of what expression he makes, but he looks surprisingly soft there, eyes downward. Your neck feels cold without him, and your heart is still beating loud, insistent, in the moment. He looks delicate, but noble. Like a fire about to be put out. It doesn't suit him, you think, such a morose and cool look. You think Leona looks terrible when he's all beautiful and dying. He is meant to _own_ things, take up space with his presence and his pride. You realize you believe the things you told him. You think he really will be able to pull it off. He is brilliant, if cruel, and you think that's the best part about him.

Terrible, rotten thing. 

You love him.

"...We can't mess this up then." He tells you, voice a bare whisper, "We have to do this."

"...Ok."

You feel like you're about to cry. You feel as if you have broken something irreplaceable. Your voice is wavering, and you feel your knees shaking. You want to collapse in his arms and take it all back. Something. You want to confess to him maybe, give him something, but you don't know what. You are troubled with uncertainty and your neediness unnerves you. It's embarrassing. It's shameful.

Instead, young, stupid thing you are, you grab his shirt and pull him forward. He receives you without word and with all signals and before you know it the world is upended. The grass itches at your skin, your clothes get dirty. He consumes you, and you devour him. Nothing is given. Barely anything is received.

It's how you know it's not love.


	12. Broken Beliefs

You will not call it love. You are hesitant to even call it devotion. You are trying to think of a million things to call it, erring on the side of pessimism, and fill the blank space with words like 'obligation' or 'instinct'. It's easier to call these things a result of societal expectations than anything darling. You don't know their relationship outside of dorm leader and vice dorm leader. You can only make your speculations based on what you've seen of them. Hell, even before he took the hit for him, Riddle had just been bossing him around again.

You are quiet afterwards, even though the rest of your cohorts are chattering in worry and then reassuring themselves. Heard Clover's a good player too; maybe it's okay? Yeah, it's probably fine. Dorm Leader will understand. Right, Ruggie?

Ruggie?

They are calling for you, but you are withdrawn in yourself, head bowed as you all march back to Savanaclaw. You are not thinking about how you will explain it to Leona. When you do, you will talk smooth and freely, saying off-handedly that it was a surprise, but it's not that big a deal right? You'll be able to sell it to him; don't worry. It won't be as hard as you think it will be. 

But right now, you struggle to explain it to yourself. You don't get it. Well, you _suppose_ you get it. Taking the fall for someone else; it's very sweet. It's almost tooth achingly sweet. It is also, without a doubt, stupid as hell.

And yet, why do you feel so damn _jealous_?

* * *

It's not at all hard to convince the second and third years. They had been there, known the sting of defeat and had been nursing their wounds and anger. Let it fester before they were ripe for your picking. Your words are slick and full of double meaning that they like the sound of. Night Raven College is a nest of rotten eggs and Savanclaw is no different. If anyone had anything to say about that, it should be noted that Savanclaw is just more forthright with their wickedness. Passionate and upfront. The other dorms liked their sneaky ways, their petty shadows, but you all bare your fangs with confidence. So when you come to them, they do not take long to catch what you are saying. They do not take long to grin and say they like the sound of that.

It spreads around the dorm like quiet wildfire. Word of mouth does half of the work for you.

What's difficult is the first years, wide-eyed and new. It's not like they were innocent, but more like they did not know your pain. You wonder over your approach until you start to see the trend. A majority of them keep mistaking you for the Vice Dorm Leader and this tickles you. You guess you can see where the assumption comes from; you stick to Leona's side out of work and so they probably assume. He calls for you so many times it makes sense why they'd think that's the only reason. You would be lying if you said you hadn't thought about it yourself, but you pass on it. It wasn't like there were any extra perks added to it that made it worth it. To you, it just sounded like more work, like more excuses for people to come for help without paying. You prefer whatever set up this is between you and Leona, work for food, work for money. You saw no reason to do any of this for free.

But you notice the apprehensive respect of the first years for you, and you think that is both cute and convenient. Rather than picking at old wounds, you would have to instill some authority on them. Your technique is different from Leona's; instead of throwing your strength around, you make it more personal. You've always been a charmer when you try, personable in that rude way people like. You get on their level, talk to them like you're already buddy-buddy. Where Leona stalks around and strikes fear in them, you follow up with candy-sweet words, bemoaning what a terror that guy could be. You hear out their homesickness, tease them for their naivety, become the upperclassmen they could depend on. It's not hard at all. You know how to get people to do what you want. You are relatable, likeable, and not too attached.

You're not tricking them. You would like to think that you are just getting them used to the food chain. This is your spot, and you haven't challenged that, and that is why you are here. 

There is only one who does not listen to you.

You had noticed Jack during the entrance ceremony of course. It's hard _not_ to. He stands over the rest of the freshmen like some towering mountain. You and Leona had noted how he'll make a good magifit player probably, to keep an eye on him, but you hadn't gone much further than that. He had been on the periphery compared to the rest of your work, your hustling. At the time, he had just been another name on the long list of people you had to convert, nothing more and nothing less.

He gets under your skin after practice one day, as you hold court with a group of first years. You all had just been relaxing, cooling off in the shade and the topic had swung around to the upcoming tournament. You are very tricky; it begins as just casual complaining about Diasomnia. You have had this conversation many times before, it's become a script; you get them pissed off. Can you believe this? Savanclaw was always top dog, and then _those_ guys showed us up. Embarrassing. He doesn't even let the other players get a say in it. What kind of dorm leader _acts_ like that?

When you make an 'other' out of an enemy it's not too hard to get people on your side. You make Malleus into a very fine and terrible villain. Sprinkle in some heroic imagery of Savanclaw _before_ the loss. Cite the King of Beasts and his philosophies; it's not _really_ cheating is it? Planning first and using that to your advantage. It's just being _cunning_ , using all your resources. They like the sound of that. You get them into the pack mentality, and you feel as if you have properly prepared the crowd. You're about to let them in on the plan, how they can help, until the shadow descends on you.

"Ruggie-senpai."

You look up. God, he _is_ tall, isn't he? Practically blocks out the sun. Jack looks down at you with fierceness and you wonder if he's mad or if he was just born with a face like that. Poor sap. Won't have any problems in life though, so you guess you can be envious of that. He's holding a couple of magifit disks under his arm, and it amazes you how he can carry so many effortlessly.

"Oh, Jack-kun, right?" You ask him cheerfully, feeling a little irritated that he interrupted you. "What's up?"

"The clean up roster says it's our turn to put up the equipment. Practice is over."

"Oh, that's true, huh?" You laugh, scratching the back of your head, "Must've slipped my mind."

"Senpai!" one of the freshmen speaks up, scrambling to get up, "I can take care of it!"

You're about to thank him, pepper him with compliments, but then Jack interrupts you.

"The roster said it has to be Senpai and me."

You feel some twinge at annoyance at his attitude. But his expression is not anger or snideness, just that same stoic mask. You can sense the other first years get mad for you, but you put up a hand deciding not to make a scene out of it.

"Yeah, yeah, you're right. Alright, I'll see you all tomorrow."

There's some more farewell chatter, small talk as you all break, but your mind is mostly on Jack. Got a nice attitude on him. Maybe you're jumping to conclusions though. Maybe he's just a shitty talker. For all you know, he could just be a stickler for rules. Not a good thing in a school like this, but then again Heartslabyul's dorm leader is a notorious perfectionist too. You decide to not take it personally, and instead walk back to the equipment shed with him, arms full, watching his broad back nearly eclipse the skyline. You give him another chance, and try to think of some topic to chat about. He beats you to the punch.

"I could hear you."

You blink. You assume you misheard.

"Huh?"

"What you were all talking about." He clarifies, and one of his wolf ears twitch. You get what he's saying, and just shrug.

"Oh, yeah? Wolf beast-men are pretty talented huh?"

"I've been hearing you the other times too."

You say nothing. You can feel the tension of this conversation tighten. You cannot tell if it will benefit you or not so you tread carefully. You just smile, playing coy.

"What do you mean, Jack? You don't need to beat around the bush, you know. It's just us here."

"You should stop here." He warns you, "Rather than getting everyone mad, shouldn't you focus on training?"

You can't help yourself. You burst out into incredulous laughter, and this catches his attention. He turns around to you, and despite his appearances he looks very young there. Like he was not prepared for that response, but also did not want to look weak in the face of it. He looks both bothered but also uncertain. 

"You got a lot of guts to talk to me like that. You must think you sound real cool." You chuckle, and he bristles more at this.

"I don't know what you're planning." He asserts himself, his voice trying to find footing, "But you should stop while you're ahead."

"Or else what? Wow, suspecting your upperclassmen so easily." You scoff, shaking your head and walk ahead of him. "C'mon what proof do you have? Look, if you don't like me just say it."

"It's not like that." He replies strongly. "It's clear to see you have a grudge against Diasomnia. You're trying to get us all involved in something right?"

You say nothing. It's very irritating to think he was able to read you like this, and deduce it, and thought he had any right to say anything about it. It's funny just to think of how many levels he was managing to piss you off. You had wondered if anyone would say anything against this, but had been so assured at how easy it would have been to get them to follow. Well, there was only one thing to do with a nail that was raised up.

"Again," you shrug, easygoing, "what proof do you have?"

"You're abusing your position."

" _Huh_?"

This took you off guard. You look back to him, confused, but he still looks very determined in the setting sun rays, like some hero in an action movie. 

"Just because you're the dorm leader's confidant you think you can get away with this?"

Wow. _Wow_ , you think. Been awhile since someone talked to you like _this_.

" _Excuse me?"_

"I can't respect guys like that, who think just because they have a higher position they're allowed to do what they want."

You blink, and you feel far away from your body in some roiling anger. Your soul feels barren and elsewhere; feels the stinging whip of the sandy winds from the slums. Accusations, and people knowing you before they even met you. No, it is not lost on you how he's right. In some ways, he is right. But you hate these types most of all, those with upright morals who think they know the whole story from actions alone. Like reasoning and intention meant nothing. It is a hyena's fault that they steal, and we will not question why they are hungry. It is the hyenas' fault they are poor, and no, we will not question who put them in the slums. All your fault, your fault, your fault.

Jack, however, is not the stolid caricature you want him to be. He is merely spouting the same rhetoric that's been used against you. Instead he looks very strong there, like an underdog finding his voice for the first time, young in an almost envious degree. Something in your soul thinks he is very lucky to be at this beginning, new and still bright to the world. Thinking that right and wrong were so clearly defined. You have never had that chance. The world beat it out of you from day one. The world said you will be hungry and those that made you hungry will never pay. Because of this, you see where he is coming from, just as much as you think he is such a brat.

"I don't think" Jack tells you finally, "Leona-senpai would like what you're doing here."

And here, you answer him with a loud and vicious laughter that rang across the orange field. You look him down, feeling powerful and the villain in one.

"Oh, _please,_ " You tell him, "Who do you think told me to do this?"

The look on his face is priceless. It feels like the punchline to this entire joke. You are shaking with indignation and as much as you want to draw this out, you instead convince yourself to play it smart. Cool. Very immaturely, something in you wants to cry, but your grandmother taught you better than that. You wave him off, taking reins of the conversation, muscling through this turmoil in your heart.

"Look, it's obvious you don't know how things work here yet. I'll let you in since I'm such a nice _senpai_." You tell him, your voice smooth and conversational again, "If you don't like something, then just don't get involved."

"That's-!"

"Do you get what I'm saying, or are you stupid?"

He says nothing. Your insult is a marked hit at the end of that question. He looks fierce and almost heartbroken. You do not care for it, and try to not think of how it reminds you of other things. 

"I'm saying, it's in your best interest to _stay out of this_."

You do not wait for his response. You march your way over to the shed, drop off everything, and just march straight back to the dorm. The entire time you wait for him to call back to you, try to play tough guy and make this some melodramatic spectacle. What's sadder is that he doesn't. You wonder if outing Leona like that had some effect, but it's still getting to you too. Of course he didn't suspect Leona. Dorm leader, prince, lion. Of course he thought of you first. Of course. They always do.

It aches in you again, that doubt, wondering what you are saving here. His pride? Your's? Are you using him, or is he using you? What are you doing, working for him like this? Are you trading in your self respect, or is this you salvaging it?

That evening, you refuse to speak to Leona. You don't tell him about Jack. Instead you order him to kiss you until you can't think of anything else.

He does, like you are a treasure.

* * *

Sometimes you don't wait for the night. Sometimes he just greedily grabs at you as you do chores in the afternoon. You don't fight him, instead laughing and teasing him for his impatience, insatiability, and kiss at him between scoldings. You don't mind the sunlight anymore. He sees every part of you, and you see every part of him. You like how nothing is hidden between you two. Equal vulnerability; same standing.

You're always comfortable in the end, cuddled up together after slow and sweet lovemaking, bodies in peaceful synchronicity with each other. Some days you tease him and tell him he's made you fall behind; that he should help you finish the work if he's gonna be so needy. He always gets embarrassed when you accuse him of being clingy. Doesn't stop him from holding you close, though. 

Lately, though, he feels a little cold.

It's not to say that he's kicking you out as soon as he's done. It's nothing like that. It's more like an awkward silence in the wake of your conversation. Like he's there but not really _there_. Physically trying to reach for something, but emotionally withdrawn. If you were more sensitive you would think it was your fault. You would get self-conscious. But instead you just try to tell yourself you don't care.

He begins receiving you like he does the rest of his life; in languid attention, without a passion attached to it. Filling a hunger, and going through the motions. He is not cruel to you. Instead it is like he is trying to find something in you, trying to muster up the passion to fill an emptiness in him.

He still talks to you. He still kisses you. You wish he was meaner, so you could feel rightfully offended. Like you could say you're the victim, and throw all the blame on him. It would be so much easier. 

This is not to say that he doesn't hiss at you these days. But it's more like a warning because you were the one who started the fight.

The room is comfortably warm, his bedsheets soft against your bare skin. Your clothes are piled on the ground in haphazard fashion, thrown aside in eagerness. You are trying to think of something to say, but feel the weight of his silence. Instead, you just watch his tail on the white bedsheets, the tufted end going up and down languidly. You are beginning to hate the silence, and you are a jokester as always. Very quickly, you grab at it, and it immediately escapes your grip.

"What the hell are you doing?" He growls at you, irritated. You smile, finally happy to see him break his cool exterior. For a moment there, you had wondered if he had fallen asleep, the mood was so subdued and quiet. You laugh your signature laugh, lighting up the room with rude humor.

"Wanted to see if I could catch it." You tease him, wagging your fingers in readiness, "Heard it's good luck if you can catch a lion by its tail."

"What kind of bullshit rumor is that?" He scoffs, and his tail is lightning fast, avoiding another lunge from you. You snicker, but he doesn't join your good mood.

"Quit it." He sighs, and readjusts himself in bed, frowning, "You're just being irritating."

"Don't be such a downer." You tease him, tapping fingers against the mattress in suppressed energy, "Hey, maybe it'll be good luck for our plan, huh?"

"Please," he scoffs, "As if we need something like that. Just do your work well, and don't leave any evidence, and it'll be fine."

You feel a bit of a sting from this. There's nothing as grating as when someone won't join your good mood, won't let themselves be coaxed into relaxing. There's something even worse from underhanded comments in softer moments. You thought maybe he would have left those things at the door, but you're finding your conversations keep going down these roads. Targets and techniques, and the steady tread of a plan. His nitpicking of your work, to make sure none of this goes South. It's not that you hate it; you want this to work out just as much as he does. You just assumed that this and that were two different things, and he would keep the work separate from his time with you.

You try to not let it get to you. You'd feel a little silly if you started getting attached here. Instead you just watch the resetting of his tail on the bed sheets. You slowly inch your fingers to it, persistently annoying, but as soon as you touch some of the fur, it retreats.

"Ruggie." He warns you again, " _Quit it_."

You blink. You have the sudden urge to hold him, to remind him that _he_ was the one who called you here. That it did not have to feel so stiff and miserable. Instead, you just relax into the bed, it's warmth and safety.

"Do lions have anything like that?"

"Huh?"

"Superstitions." You clarify, "Folktales. Like those old wives tales that adults tell kids so they won't get into trouble."

He says nothing for a moment. He breathes, but it doesn't sound tired.

"Hell if I know."

"Hyenas do. We have a ton."

You feel oddly far away now, your mind drifting backwards, remembering the river that ran through your neighborhood, the way the sun set on it. It was brilliant, the way it sparkled like a diamond bracelet laid against the horizon. You know it's full of mud and dirt, runoff from the capital, but it always managed to be gorgeous during sunrise. You want to tell him this. You have that silly thought again, of how Leona would look back at your home. Would he stand out? Lion amongst your poor little splendors. Of course he would stand out.

"Like have you heard about the one with the itchy palm?" You ask, but he doesn't answer, "If it's your right palm, it means you're gonna get money soon."

He says nothing.

"Or it's bad luck if you sweep your house at night. 'Cause that means you're sweeping away your wealth."

You chuckle, to yourself, feeling like a lonely performer in a spotlight. Your fingers feel fidgety, tapping against the mattress. 

"It's funny; it all has to do with money, huh? I guess people just want something to believe in."

You turn towards him, but he doesn't stir at this, instead still laid on his back. He looks comfortable there, his body familiar territory to you now. His chest rises and falls in steady time so you know he has not fallen asleep. You're both here, cuddled under the sheets, but it feels like Leona is miles away from you.

"Not that I believe in that stuff." You scoff, and look downwards, suddenly feeling vulnerable in open light. You spot his tail again, dark and svelte against the white sheets. "I mean, if it was that easy I would've done it a long time ago."

You don't know why you're letting your mouth run. The room just feels too big if you didn't.

"My grandmother used to get mad at me if I cleaned at night because of that." You laugh, "Used to throw this fit. I just don't get it."

You blink.

"I still don't get it."

Silence. You watch his tail, and think about how it's all around uncertainty, ideas that habits and actions could have any weight on the mystery of the world. It sounds so stupid to you, to depend on anything out of bare belief and trust. That something without confident backing could protect you.

"But, y'know, maybe," You reach forward, "Maybe they know something I don't."

Instantly, lightning quick, Leona lunges forward and grabs your wrist before you can grab him. Your heart stops, and you look up in shock. Leona looks at you with a sinister smile, eyes narrowed in primal anger. He looks sharp and terrible.

"You sure do talk a lot, don't you?" He tells you darkly, laughing, "It's a good thing you're a hard worker, ‘cause you sure do talk a lot."

You go cold. 

You go silent.

On the surface, this looks no different from your usual banter. On the surface, this sounds like any other time you have poked fun at each other. He has said these sorts of things to you plenty of times before, and you knew to fight back with similar ferocity. It was like animals, play fighting. But you know Leona now; you know his tells and his tones and the way he thinks and the things he likes. And you know this is different. You know this is done without love.

And your stomach twists in itself, as you are reminded of all the things people have said of you, the things society believed.

Thrown back at you by him.

(But isn't this what you wanted?)

You struggle to think of what to say. His grip on you isn't painful, but it is firm, like telling you it _could_ be. He looks at you steady, patient hunter in the grass, and you are so struck that you are speechless. You want to lash out at him. You want to cry. Both options are unbearably childish. You feel ashamed to get riled up by this, by something just as harmless as a few sentences. You are angry at him for bringing those things here, in these moments between you two.

Then his ear flicks. He turns quickly, craning his neck towards the balcony. It takes you a moment for you to hear it too; voices outside, wavering with nervous emotion. He lets go of you, and slides off the bed.

"Leona?" You ask him, still trying to get a grasp of the situation. You watch him pull on his pants, zipping them back up.

"Someone's intruded on our territory."

"Oh?"

He slips on his shirt, and looks out to the sky. He looks back at you over his shoulder, assured as always.

"Sounds like herbivores." He grins.

And it's gone. All threat and subtle fury. He is back to how you know him, mischievous and cocky, motioning for you to hurry up and catch up with him. It feels so strange to be pushed away one moment, and then brought back in the next. But something in you breathes a sigh of relief. You pause for a moment, but then muster up a smirk back at him. You know there's more to this than childish bullying; a precarious situation Savanaclaw is in right now. Doesn't mean you can't have your fun. And you tell yourself you don't care. It was shocking, sure, but also nothing you're not used to. You can chalk it up to stress. You can chalk it up to predictably.

You have your careless fun with those intruders from Heartslabyul, you play magifit with your usual energy. Leona seems top in form. You don't know why you can't be either. Somehow, having a common enemy just smooths out the rest of the problems. You don't think about it afterwards. You don't place weight on it.

(Instead what keeps you up at night was your own response, the way it rustled you.)

(When did you start expecting better from _Leona_ of all people?)


	13. The Privilege of Mercy, The Gift of Violence

It should be stated that the plan did not go so smoothly as people would assume. Savanaclaw had its bumps in the road too. And why wouldn't it? You're all teenage boys, united by anger, simultaneously territorial and way too concerned about appearances. Self reflective in both overbearing pride and easy-to-wound immaturity. So sometimes you bumped shoulders and got a little feisty. You're pretty used to the short tempers on people; not as if the slums was a haven of saints either. But these problems were dealt with properly. It should be said that Leona is better than people give him credit for. That you knew this, and wish the world knew it too.

It's not that you ache for him. Looking back you can see why he cried about the futility of his hard work. It may be that as dorm leader, it was the only place he could showcase it. The only stage he had. And what a small and insignificant corner he was given. But he proves you right. Leona was meant for better things, and you had no place to stand in his way or stay by his side.

It happened one afternoon, and you’re returning from classes. Your mind was preoccupied with food again, thinking of leftover ingredients you have and how to best use them. It's funny, because Leona pays for everything but you just can't shake yourself of that poor way of planning. You hear it first as you step into Savanaclaw; riotous cheering and then screaming cuss words. An argument. You make a run for it, sensing trouble and knowing Savanaclaw was very vulnerable right now, in the middle of a scheme.

You find a crowd in the lounge, watching a fight with enthusiasm and childish bloodlust. They cheer but it sounds more like roars. You push your way through, and a few people get surprised and scared seeing you, noticing when authority has arrived. You make your way through the sea, and finally spot the spectacle; two members are duking it out, yelling insults at each other. One tackles the other, and they fall together into the lounge's pool. They make a big splash, and the audience cries out for more. You don't know what's going on, but you've also worked too damn hard to let some bastards make it for nothing.

"Outta my way, outta my way!" You yell, and muscle through to their little ring, "Break it up!"

"Bucchi-senpai!" one of them freeze up as soon as they hear you. They treat you with respect, stopping when seen. It's nice to know you had some power in this dorm. They're both soaked, looking ferocious but afraid. One of them, with the ears of a jackal, flicks them to get rid of some of the water.

"What the hell is this?! If you idiots got so much energy to fight, why don't you go practice?"

"This guy...This guy started it!" One of them immediately defends himself. "I can't forgive him talking to me like that!"

"You! Don't go crying because I'm right!" His opponent shoots back, "You damn traitor! You think Bucchi's gonna take your side?!"

"Alright! Alright!" You clap your hands to get their attention, looking down at them. God, it's like dealing with the kids from the slums again, gotta settle their fights. You are very aware of the eyes on you, but you're not so much intimidated as much as you feel put out. You hold your hands up, and sigh. "Tell me what the problem is. And for God's sake, would you get outta the pool? You look like a pair of hippos."

Some sadistic chuckles come from the crowd, and both students flush from the attention. It helps alleviate the mood somewhat, and bring them back to their senses. They listen, and both climb out of the water, a little embarrassed and more humbled. They stand in front of you like schoolchildren in trouble with a teacher. Didn't matter that they also towered over you with their height and muscles. They watch each other warily, wondering which one will be the first to talk. You inwardly sigh again, arms crossed, as you just motion for them to get it over with already.

"We...we were talkin' about the targets." One confesses, stumbling and reserved, but gaining strength, "This guy here doesn't want to do it."

"I didn't say that!" The jackal-eared student immediately argues, and then looks back at you, "Bucchi-senpai, you take care of all of them, right? There's one guy I want you to leave alone."

"Huh?" You respond rudely, "The hell is this?"

"He's my friend!" He quickly explains himself, neck getting red from the getting worked up, "He's in Scarabia. But look, he's good on the field but can't we let him go?"

"See, listen to this guy! Playing favorites!" The other student growls, "So what, your friend is more important than all of us?!"

"Bastard! I said _I didn't say that!"_

You suddenly realize this is a problem bigger than you, like trying to keep a storm in a bottle. Inwardly, you feel angry at yourself primarily because this is exactly _why_ you try to stay out of people's business. But you've gotten so attached to all of this, that you couldn't help but want to preserve it. Still, you examine the argument for what it is, and it's lost on you. Wanting to save a friend from crooked ways like this; you've never had anything like that. You've always been more than willing to sacrifice others for your own gain. It makes you realize how much of a heart you lack, and you feel a slight pang of shame. You shake it off soon enough; you gotta get these two under control before they come to blows again, but you struggle to find an equal solution. 

"Hey, hey!" You try to get their attention, waving your arms, "C'mon, let's all just-!"

"You have a lot of guts to talk to me like that!" One of them yells, your voice lost in the dispute.

"You think I'm scared of you?!"

"Bucchi!" one of them turns to you, whip-sharp, his fangs gleaming, "Tell this guy! You're not gonna do it right?!"

" _Huh?_ "

"Of course he will!"

Being caught in the middle was worse than seeing the storm from the outside. You struggle when in the spotlight, and feel the pressure of violence in the air. Gotta think of somethin'. Don't need your teeth knocked out on top of everything else you've been going through. Fuckin' first years, always gotta get all emotional.

"What the hell is this racket?"

The room freezes at his voice, and that should say everything about his presence.

The sound of his boots clacking approach slowly, and the crowd parts to make way for him. Leona emerges, his gaze cold, unamused in both expression and stance. He is tall, his muscles well-shaped in the dorm leader uniform, and his hair is slightly unkempt like he just got rudely awakened from a nap. The crowd around him watches in anticipation and the sheer respect he gets from entering a room speaks volumes about the leader he was.

He regards the scene with cool study, but when he spots you, ears furled back and small, he seems to get the message.

"Ruggie." He addresses you first, breaking the silence, "What is this?"

You don't know whether to feel flattered that he's asking you first, or feel stupid that he's making you do it. You laugh nervously, and shrug to ease the mood.

"Nothin' good I can tell you that."

He doesn't laugh, not even smirk. Well, it was a worth a shot, at least. You explain briefly, the fight and the opposing sides. As soon as you finish, one of them speaks up again.

"You hearing this, dorm leader? This guy thinks he gets to give orders now!"

"Huh. Funny." Leona deadpans, without even looking his way, "Did a hornbill get into the dorm? 'Cause I'm sure hearing a lot of annoying squawking."

He pales, and immediately shuts up. He looks down in embarrassment, and it's impressive how easily Leona could do that. Leona doesn't look too proud right now, however, and instead sighs heavily, running a hand through his hair. He looks up, in annoyance.

"This is all you two are fighting about? What a headache. We don't need infighting like this now."

Predictably, he doesn't play the part of dorm leader with smiles and soothing words; just like that first day with you, he's always been annoyed anytime he was asked to call upon his authority. It made it more obvious that he had little patience for petty squabbles, similarly instilling self-control in the group. That same tension tightens in the air, less of the previous hostility, but more the clear disappointment that problems like this were brought to Leona. In short, there's a hierarchy, and Leona was called in to take care of it again. He looks back down at the jackal-eared student giving him his attention.

"So, let me get this straight," He addresses him, and the guy's shoulders freeze, "You don't want us to hurt your friend, right?"

"Y-Yeah. Dorm leader-!"

"How close are you to this guy?" Leona immediately interrupts.

"Huh?"

"How important is he to you?" Leona reiterates, his voice and stance solid, "How long have you known him?"

The student flushes with boyish embarrassment instantly, and looks down. You want to laugh at the image, because Leona is such a terror right now. Gotta put a guy right on the spot and make him talk about his feelings. You'd almost feel bad for the kid, if it wasn't so funny. He gulps, and builds up the confidence.

"We're...we're in the same classes." He admits, "And he's always helping me. He's real smart. Look, he's not a bad guy, and-"

"So you trust him? Just tell me; do you trust him?"

The student stops again, his face red, and his age apparent. Despite his size and demeanor, he suddenly looks very young there. The water is still dripping off his hair, and it makes soft plopping noises on the lounge floor. He doesn't answer, but just nods. Leona considers this for a moment, his tail moving back and forth behind him in thought. He doesn't seem to be taking malicious enjoyment out of this. Instead of bullying, it was more like he was hearing out a case and deciding how to judge. He looks away, eyes looking upward in tiredness, bothered but thoughtful.

"Is he a good player? And don't sugarcoat it if you two are just close; be honest. Is he good?"

"...He is."

Savanclaw watches with anticipation for Leona's decision. It's a tricky situation, but it was also his idea to enact this whole plan. He doesn't seem nervous in the spotlight; instead Leona takes his sweet time to sort through his own thoughts. And you think in that moment how enviable that strength is. To be so assured in oneself, to not shy away from the duty of leadership. He threw around his weight, but he's also rightly earned the right to. Briefly, you remember what Malleus said of him that rainy day: _Feels like the world owes him, even if he hasn't earned it._ And it strikes you how common this misconception of him is. And truthfully, you cannot blame them; Leona does not put forth the effort, so of course people would assume there is none. But when he tries, he tries, and then it finally shows. And you think that's sort of sad, the paradox he makes of his possibilities and his image. He is capable, but no one bothers to look, so he doesn't try. And when finally given a stage, he shirks from the duty. You wonder if this is pitiful, or if he is just wounded. Like he lost the hope of it long ago, so nothing has changed his mind since.

Leona blinks, and looks back down.

"On game day," he announces, "he's your responsibility."

"Huh?"

"We won't hurt him, but it's up to you to take him out."

The student pales. He furrows his brows, shoulders raising in anger.

"The hell?! So you _are_ punishing me?"

"Geez, would you shut up and hear me out?" Leona scoffs, flicking his hair back, not intimidated in the least, "We're giving him a fighting chance. If you trust him as much as you say, and if he's as strong as you think, then give him the chance to prove himself on the field. We'll give him that respect. You got it?"

"I don't know...I just…"

"You don't think you can do it? You don't think he can handle you? If he beats you, then he beats you. If you win, then you win. Giving him special treatment is just saying you don't trust him, right?"

"That's…"

"Give him a fair fight. If you're really his friend then face him head on with pride."

This was said without room for argument, in strong tone that would not be swayed by other decisions. But the judgement was surprisingly fair, if mature, and the crowd sees this. The student struggles a bit, his pride wounded, but his wish fulfilled. He dwells on Leona's ultimatum, and brightens a bit the more he thinks on his words. Finally, he nods, satisfied to be heard but also relied on.

"...Ok. I can do that."

"Good." Leona sighs, and shakes his head, already turning on his heel, "Seriously. You could've just come to be about this." He berates, and you see the hidden kindness in his rough words. Before anyone could comment on it though, he turns his head around to look at both of them. He smirks.

"Both of you go dry off, you look all washed up." He laughs, cruel and light-hearted.

"Y-Yes, sir!"

"Ruggie." He addresses you in the next sentence without missing a beat, "Let's go."

You're brought back to the moment abruptly, watching with such focus you almost forgot you were a player on this stage. You nod, and follow, falling back in step with him like always. You wonder how you two must look to the watching crowd, to the rest of Savanaclaw. A nice little matching set, rarely seen apart, and always working together. It is rare, but a few times you have been asked about it. You are always honest, but they must think there is more. There certainly looks to be more with how many times he calls for you. And you are so used to having to worry how you appear to the world, the comments others make of you, that you cannot help but be aware of this too. And you think it is such a farce, how you both seem so perfectly balanced on the outside when your relationship has become such a fractured thing behind doors. 

"That was surprisingly nice of you, Leona," You tease him as you both walk back to his room. "To spare his friend."

"Is that what you think I did?" Leona immediately scoffs, chuckling darkly, "If he's not able to do it I'll just take care of it myself. I'm giving him a chance to prove if he really cares about this guy or not."

You laugh, shaking your head. "I expected as much. You're as cruel as ever."

"Hey," Leona cuts in, voice suddenly serious alongside the playful banter, "You messed up too, though."

"Huh?"

He puts his hands in his pockets, and looks up. He sighs, only his back shown to you as he walks ahead. At first you assume you will get teased about your nosey behavior, how you would have been rightly punished. But Leona is in top form today, so he surprises you too.

"You should have told me."

" _Huh?_ "

"You clearly couldn't handle it. Next time, come and get me."

You bristle, not from the insult, but the hidden care. You want to misread it; you desperately wish you could. But you can sense his softness now, and it irritates you to see it here. You try to make it something different, steer the conversation to familiar waters.

"I don't wanna come crying to you about everything. You think I'm that weak?"

"Ruggie." His voice is firm, authoritative, "Next time, just come to me."

The mood is familiar to you. His incessant worry about you, trying to force his help on you. His frustration with your independence. And before this has soothed you, made you happy if confused with attention. But you cannot be those people anymore you think, and today he proved exactly why. You're thinking again about how you must look to the world, and think that what's more right is that there is a hierarchy. That his power supersedes yours, and his orders are more important than your decisions. That he is a good leader, master at strategy and allocation, and he should not give you special treatment out of some tender reason. You think that is right; that in some convoluted way you are finally giving him a stage to show off his capabilities. 

Or maybe, you are just used to ducking your head to the stronger. Maybe Leona needs to look down on someone once in a while. This is just the people you are.

"If you say so," you sigh, "Mr. Dorm Leader."

You say this last part with usual teasing candor, in bright nonchalance. You try to make it sound like a compliment mixed with mocking. You try to make it cheery.

Leona says nothing though, and the silence makes it feel cruel.

* * *

You are both such terrible and perfect things that you do not talk about the relationship past that day. You are not a feeling kind of breed and so you just do not talk about the awkward things, unfinished feelings and dissatisfactions. Instead, you wordlessly agree to leave it back there where you had left it, on the field, in the dying light. You both work perfectly together, and because of this, switch gears so that you focus on the plan more than each other. This is not to say you do not have your fun, but it lessens after the business is done. Like you had a spark before that has fizzled out. It's not that you hate being around him however. And it's not like he hates being around you (you assume, because he has not turned you away yet.) It's just that you show less of yourselves to each other, and instead individually pursue your goals.

Leona does not grab at you anymore. He does not call for you for anything besides his needs and the plan. You are put in an awkward position; to reach out is to imply your own attachment. To confront him is to prove your investment. But also, you can tell he does not do this on purpose but instead it is a byproduct of his own misery. He is focused, and single-minded, and harsher as a result. He's antsy with getting things right. Like a beast pacing it's cage before feeding time, he is thinking only of the day of the tournament and crushing possible obstacles. He is hyper aware of any weak points. He is hungry, you tell yourself. That is all. He is hungry for a thing you cannot give him, and just like you knew, you are only a distraction.

Well, you justify things, it's not as if your relationship had been anything more than a fun pastime anyway. You return to your bed now without precursor or an evening to reminisce about. It's not as if you weren't expecting such a thing. And it's not as if you missed him.

(Besides he's such a hostile thing now; there was barely anything there to miss.)

He begins to speak to you harshly too. His comment to you in bed was the beginning, and while he is not cruel, it is like you are just another face at Savanaclaw to him. Slowly but surely he cuts the tender ties with you, and you are more working together than enjoying each other. His barbs to you lack their usual loving undercurrent. Instead your medicine is now bitter, inevitable, and necessary. He accuses you of working for yourself. He has told you this before, but now you just respond with vicious teasing. You are not wounded from it, because you cannot deny it. You are not wounded because you have heard worse.

He had said before that you were using each other, and while you refute him when he makes the accusations now, you wonder if you do it to reassure him or to trick him. It could be either. You try not to think about it too hard. You have more things to worry about now. You continue your little tirade, watch the chess pieces fall one by one, and feel nothing when you hear cries of pain. All you leave with is the familiar static in your veins of leftover magic.

Jack makes his appearances again. You think it's sort of funny how Leona can sniff him out so easily, all the bullshit he spouts, and you take some vicious fun at his expense. You feel you have given up enough to get to this point, so you will admit, you had no sympathy for Jack in the beginning. The only thing you take offense at is when he tells Leona he should just try harder. Something feels off in you like you know he is right, but also you have seen the struggle and helped its merciless venture. If you were a better person, you probably would have told Leona the same thing.

Instead, you ask him if you should take care of him.

Leona tells you don't bother.

(He's noticeably distant after the confrontation, quiet and seething with sadness. You take the hint. Before you would have probably teased him into submission and made him speak his mind. But you are not those people anymore. You don't stay that night.)

He is more irritable after, rigid with stress. You don't ask about it, and pretend not to see it. Not your problem, you tell yourself. Sure as hell got nothing to do with you. 

You've just finished up offing that Vice Dorm Leader from Scarabia when you get the text message. You dutifully head straight to his room like ordered, walking the dark halls of Savanaclaw. You assume it will have to do with the plan, as most things have been these days. You alternatively nag at him and take his orders, just like before. You just don't talk about each other anymore.

When you enter his room, Leona is on the balcony again, but this time he is reclined at the table that is set up there. He's staring out into the night sky, tail swinging sleepily back and forth behind him. You spot it quickly, because it glitters in the moonlight. On the table stands a small potion bottle, royal purple, it's topper festooned with engravings of seashells. You catch the scent as you approach; salt and seawater.

"You called, Leona?"

His ear twitches and he looks over his shoulder at you. He is fierce as always, unamused with some contempt. His shoulders soften when he sees you, but you pretend not to see that too. Instead you just approach with an easygoing saunter, trying to not be too obvious with how you eye that potion. His arms are crossed and he looks away again, gaze settled on the dark horizon.

"...I need to tell you about the second part of my plan."

You blink. At first there is a soft disappointment, familiar these days, and then a cold blindness to it.

"Oh?" You instead smile, "You got more? I thought it was just getting rid of the star players."

"That's just the first part." He tells you, "Now we're going to take care of Malleus."

He looks back up at you again, eyes dangerous and face unloving. He is serious and he smirks at you.

"I'm going to need you for this, Ruggie."

(And it would sound like a gift if you were an idiot.)

"What's this?" You scoff, walking to the other side of the table, pulling out a chair for yourself, "Haven't you been working me hard already? Should I start charging you?"

"I'm letting you take care of the lizard yourself. Don't you feel honored?"

You plop yourself down on the chair, sitting leisurely like a thief and give him a sideways look, skeptical and handsome. You raise an eyebrow at him, cautiously treading in a conversation you don't know.

"Why? What do you want me to do?"

"On the day of the match, Diasomnia is going to lead the crowd to the stadium. And _you,_ " He addresses you confidently, "Are going to cause a stampede."

"A stampede? How?"

"With your magic. Malleus is powerful but he's still a prince, right? He can't use his magic against bystanders. He'll be crushed by the crowd, and be taken out of the match."

He smiles at you, self-assured. Confident to know he's thought it all out with a dollop of symbolism to decorate it. 

The first thought you have is some sick sense of pride. Like you were being given a gift, a chance to prove yourself, a chance to pull the trigger. That it will be you, sad little you, to take out the prince from the Valley of Thorns. How nice did that sound? It's practically tied up in a bow for you. You do not think of the crowd; of course you don't. You've never said you were a good person. It's clear cut and easy to execute and gives you a nice stage to be in the spotlight. You will admit, at first when you heard it, you felt worthy.

But there, looking at him, you begin to feel some blow to your pride. The logic and skepticism sets in. You never turn down a free meal, but you're also not someone to swallow poison even if it was slipped into a sweet package. You furrow your brow, and decide to get difficult.

"What the hell is this? You want to make this a big spectacle now?"

"Why not? Our loss was also broadcast to the whole world; I think it's fitting."

"And how am I supposed to do this, huh? I can't control a whole crowd of people."

"With that." Leona motions to the potion with his chin "Go on. Have a look."

It was like a quiet threat in the whole conversation, a glaring item in the room that demanded attention but would not be explained. You sheepishly grab it, like it would explode any second, and examine it. It gleams prettily when you hold it up to the moonlight, like iridescent pearls.

"It's meant to amplify your magic." Leona explains, "With this, you should be able to control the crowd for a few minutes."

"...From Azul, huh?" You guess. Leona scoffs next to you.

"That's right. That guy's sketchy, but at least he gets the job done."

You had a feeling as soon as you could smell the ocean, but to have your suspicions confirmed just makes you more uneasy.

"You…" you pause, speaking without thinking, "You didn't tell me you were going to Octavinelle."

"It's not like I wanted to, but he's in charge of the whole thing. It kills two birds with one stone."

"Oh, come on, Leona. Only idiots make a deal with Azul." You tell him snidely, bringing down the potion and looking back to him, "What did you give him? It must've cost a fortune, right?"

He shifts. He grimaces, unhappy to be called out like this but you don't care if you're getting after him when he was feeling so good about himself. All these steps he's revealing to you, the risks he's making, are tripping alarm bells in your head. Leona does not answer you, instead seemingly mad at whatever deal had taken place, and even more mad to be reminded of it. It's a wordless cue that he will not confess what he gave. You guess it doesn't matter much in the end, anyway. It did not change what was happening here. You both could give all the excuses you wanted, cover up all your uncertainty with pride, but it did not change what he has done. Confident and assured Leona has made his risky gamble in pursuit of a questionable victory. It could sound heroic to you if you didn't know him. Instead, all you have is the pervasive and aching thought that you do not recognize this man.

He only ever takes the risks he knows he will win. Entrusting this to you felt like either trust or sacrifice. You wonder if he's confiding in you, or if he's willing to throw you in harm's way to get what he wanted.

You look back to the potion, still nestled in your hand, and suddenly it feels like poison to you. Things done without your permission. Someone else's agenda furthered with your eagerness to please. You gulp. You have known Leona for a while now, but he looks like a stranger here. It reminds you of that holiday, the silhouettes of lions in bright headlights. The conversations on this balcony you've had, you on the edge, his lofty confessions to you.

Sand blowing in the wind.

It's not that you are being made to do things you find distasteful. It's that you feel less like a partner and more like a tool.

"Why me?"

"Huh?"

"You couldn't come up with anything else? You have to use my power again?"

"...What the hell is this?" He asks, voice getting noticeably low, "You don't wanna do it?"

(It makes you shiver, a warning growl, and he has never spoken to you like this before. He's treating you in such new ways lately, with vitriol and impatience but he's still warning you. He's still warning you.)

You decide to soften the mood, involuntarily reminded of your rank here. You will claim it's so you can have a productive conversation, but really your stomach has begun twisting into knots.

"It's not that." You tell him, your voice steady and easygoing to contrast his anger, "Don't get me wrong, I'd love the chance to put that guy in his place. I just mean the _risk."_

"The risk?"

"Think about it. Think about what you're asking me to do here. That's the _Heir to the Valley of Thorns._ You want me, a nobody hyena, to get him hurt? Crushed? And what happens if someone links it back to me, huh? You think they'll just let me off with a slap on the wrist?"

Leona says nothing. Your knees would be shaking now if you were standing, and you realize how tense you are watching this conversation. Trying to navigate perilous land until you're safe. In the beginning you had always been afraid of Leona, waiting for his perceived pushbacks, for some violence, some consequences. It was so strange. You thought you had let go of that unfounded fear, but here it is again. Here it is again, and he just took his sweet time to prove you right. Your assuming placid, easygoing nature in front of ferocious unpredictability. You, again, are showing your belly to a lion without good intentions.

(It hurts. Of course it hurts.)

(All those times, all those times, souls shared in the night, sweet words shared in between kisses, his rough reassurance, _it hurts-)_

"...So what?" Leona finally says strongly, and you try to decipher the message in his words, "You don't think this will work?"

"No, no-"

"You think we'll get caught that easily?"

"I mean, it's also this potion!" You tell him, placing it back on the table, half-laughing to ease the mood, "I mean a potion from Azul? You think it'll actually work? You know how that guy is, I wouldn't put it past him to pull something with this too-"

"I paid well enough-"

"Oh no, I don't doubt that! I mean, rich kid like you-"

"If anything happens to you, I'll take care of it."

You stop, sudden softness in his tone, and you flush with innocent expectations. You try to not let it get a rise out of you, but you are cutely boyish with surprise. He looks ahead, arms crossed, frowning and angry with his own vulnerability. It catches you, in this hostile conversation, a glimpse of him again.

"Huh?"

"If...If anything happens," he clarifies, looking away, voice delicately present, "If anything happens, I'll take care of it."

You are so easy. That's all it takes. It floods you like happiness, and it stings against the injuries of your broken heart. Like washing with wounds. That's not fair, you think. For him to put you in one conversation, to swipe at you, and then lick your wounds the next moment. He makes it sound so easy, you think darkly. Your hopeful love begins to recede like ocean waves, and his whiplash mood just leaves you feeling bitter. You bristle, but try to keep cool. 

"Aren't I so lucky?" You chuckle, sounding more demeaning than you intend, "His Highness looking out for me. You make it sound easy."

"It's not easy." He immediately responds, "It's _necessary._ "

The word settles cold in the air. It takes you off guard, just as much as you knew to expect it. Something small in you, hurt and fragile, thinks _of course_. _Of course it was._

You are no better. You are sure there was something in his reassurance. Looking back on this, you will see that weak offer, a broken olive branch handed out of aloof pride. Like he wanted to do more for you, but also would not allow himself anymore. And maybe that is why you threw it back at him; because you are not satisfied with half-love, half-comforts, something done with afterthought and without commitment. Aren't you a hypocrite though? He had already offered you those things on that sunset field but you had rejected it then, too.

Of course you are thinking of consequences. You are not so privileged to shrug your shoulders and 'see where things take you'. As much as you hate Malleus, you are also not ready to go down in flames with him. As much as you want your victory, you're not willing to sacrifice your future for it. And it all cycles together in your heart, like a typhoon, what Leona is asking of you, his anger, the power imbalances in wake of your relationship. Unequal payments and unpaid debts and unsaid feelings. Choices over feelings. Assured future over uncertain kindness. And it dawns on you cold, and the room might as well be the unforgiving wastelands.

He is doing exactly what you did. Pushing him towards his goal in lieu of his feelings. Choosing your success over each other. Trying to give you a chance instead of your heart.

And it's pretty as much as it is tragic. You're both so perfect for each other. In sync even now. Determined and heartless even with each other.

"You're not…" You look into the horizon with him, "You're not a bad dorm leader."

His ear twitches. He doesn't turn.

"You act like it, but you're not. You don't come up with bad plans. So this needs to be done, right?"

He says nothing. You feel like you are comforting him as much as you are driving a knife into his heart. You are granting him your forgiveness as much as you point out his sins. You want him to be this person. You want him to overcome, even if it meant being used by him.

Because honestly, you were using him too. If he is not this person, you will also lose something.

And he's so cruel, just as much as you are. Because he doesn't look pleased with this, when you finally agree. Instead he just keeps looking out at nothing, his profile strong and his eyes dull. If you didn't know him better you wouldn't notice it. But you have been there for his dark moments, his hopeless resignation. It would have been easier to be mad at him if he didn't care what he was doing or asking you to do. But his heart just isn't in it. Like everything else, he takes this moment in listless procedure and unhappy obligation. How noble of him, you think.

You look away, trying to find some other excuses to make, trying to find some other way to wound him. He beats you to the punch.

"...You know, this is your one chance."

"Huh?"

He chuckles, sadly, bitter. He is looking down now, with a pained smile that could be misinterpreted as genuine amusal.

"This is your one chance to call me an asshole."

You blink. It's so easy to hate a person when you assume they are not aware of their own drawbacks. You would like to think it's _easier_ to be mad at someone when they are self-aware, but instead your heart is a storm of conflict and dilemma. You want to be angry with him, but you are more overcome with crippling pity. It's sweet with uncertainty. It's a tragedy. Here he is, presenting you a nostalgic gift, drawing out tender sentimentalism. You laugh, shaking your head. The room brightens barely, with dark comedy.

"...Really?" You scoff, your voice bare with familiarity, "'Cause I can think of a thousand reasons to call you one."

He surprises you. He rumbles with a laugh from his chest, and you soften in response to it. It's a strange feeling, like you are drawing aside a curtain he had been hiding behind. He does not turn to look at you. 

"Yeah. I guess you do." He admits. You wish you could give him something else; more of your anger. Something like love. But you are just a poor hyena; you do not have anything to give him as a gift. Besides, it was not your responsibility to heal anything. Instead, you look back at the potion, the sinewy shadow it cast. 

You guess he's already asking something from you anyway. You don't, and can't, give anything more than this.

"Well," you tell him, getting up from your seat, "If this all works out I'll hold you to that."

"Ruggie-"

"Don't." You grab the potion and then look down at him, smiling. "At least give me that reward, alright?"

Your voice is cheery again, like chatting with an old friend, teetering between self-deprecation and good nature. You're realizing now that in the sad moments, in your tense moments, you always respond with humor. Well, hyenas are just like that, it seems. Laughing at your sad lot in life.

Leona looks up at you, noble but pained. You hate that look on his face. Never did suit him. He looks away, and just shrugs.

"Just don't mess this up."

Leona did not talk about the aftermath. Well, that's a lie; he talked about it plenty with the rest of Savanclaw, building them up. All the acclaim and honor that will flood back if the plan went through. But only him and you know that he never talked about the aftermath of you two. He was just single-minded on the goal, reminding you of your work and how crucial your success was. This was the only time you reminded him that there was a future for you two. But even then he did not join in. Just reminded you of your place.

On your way back to your room, the potion is a small weight in your pocket. It almost feels like you are carrying the sea in your pocket, the smell of sea salt still present to your beasty nose. You are thinking of his paltry offer. Thinking of what you would do if everything worked out well. Maybe you'll get scouted. Just like your grandma said before you came here, it was a good opportunity and to not waste it. And you think of Leona.

Of course you think of Leona.

You will admit, walking away, you waited for him to call your name. You waited for him to come after you.

You think it would be incredibly melodramatic and stupid if he chased you down. Like you were some silly couple in a romance movie. What kind of trite bullshit. When has a lion ever chased down a hyena without the intention to kill? And besides, you have nothing to say to him, just as much as he has nothing to offer you. This is who we are, you think. He should be this person and you should just be a hyena. There was nothing beyond this. There was nothing of worth compared to the recognition, the justice, this ridiculous school's game and reclamation of pride.

You wonder if it's even about the tournament anymore. That the conflict would be the same no matter what the stage was. You wish you could hold him.

You wish you could strangle him.


	14. If You Come to Me Hungry, I'll Feed You

"Ruggie Bucchi. There’s something we would like to ask you about the consecutive incidents regarding the injury of selected players."

The beginning of the end comes for you in the middle of afternoon classes. You will admit, you did not feel scared when you saw them. You instead were so bruised at this point, and so high off your bloody victories, you just sardonically thought what a pain in the ass they were.

You think you've been doing pretty good though, considering it took them the day before the tournament to confront you. You held out pretty well, all things considering. Had almost hit the finish line save for that last lap.

Riddle Rosehearts is a real piece of work you think. Everyone knew he was a genius and a prodigy and also so stiff he might as well be a damn tree. Similarly, Heartslabyul was just a pack of young princes, drinking tea and stumbling over themselves with those stupid rules. You weren't scared of Heartslabyul, so you sure as hell weren't scared of their dorm leader either. Cater may have gotten you a bit nervous though; you had him pegged for a vapid party boy, but the tone he took with you was sinister enough to get you to listen.

Still doesn't change the fact they were easy to rob though. Reminded you of the tourists in the marketplace. Suckers. 

You are single-minded during the chase, exhilarated by the practice you've had growing up. You mock them, and display an arrogance that was born from your poor upbringing. It's nice when you get to show off to pampered little boys. Makes you almost pity them. At this point you're not even posturing; you're just terrible, and feel nice when you can finally kick down people from your pedestal.

You don't feel the weight of the danger and you tell them as much. Do you have proof? You feel unstoppable because they have nothing on you other than the idea that you are untouchable. Can't even keep up with a hyena.

You don't realize just how bad things have gotten until Leona confronts you.

"I told you not to leave evidence, idiot!"

It's not that Leona hasn't raised his voice with you before, or gotten mad. You've always equated him with a lion with a very intimidating roar, but not much of a bite. But there's been something to him lately, the way he holds his shoulders, the short temper. You're not so sensitive to flinch at a raised voice, yourself a hardened creature, but you feel something off in the way he talks. You reassure him, voice shaky but optimistic. After all, you are all doing this for a reason. If he's going to be so antsy about it, he should remember the pay off for it all.

You remind him of Malleus. You remind yourself of Malleus. The person Leona could be. Is meant to be.

(Who _you_ could be.)

The rest of Savanaclaw gets what you are saying, the combined chorus of hope. You are a little assured when Leona teases everyone, but then the taboo subject arises from the voices.

"The people from Afterglow Savannah will definitely think you should be king now."

You feel something cold at hearing this. You want to punch the shoulder of the guy who just said that. It was said in childish reassurance, the blind hope of someone who didn't know any better. You think maybe you are the one overreacting, that your suspicions don't hold water. But in the corner of your eye you see him dim, like a light put out.

"Effort and family lineage are different."

It's so strange. Later you will be able to put together the puzzle pieces. All his problems and anxieties, the root of it all, where it all began. He's given you so many clues now to lead back to him, the things he has been carrying. But this will be the first time he says it outloud. When it's concretely given form. Your ear twitches.

"Huh?"

"...It's nothing."

And he retreats. He dismisses you all. No one seems to notice but you, how he lessens in the aftermath. You try to tell yourself you've heard things. That he had not actually said anything. You had enough of a close run-in today, you did not need to throw yourself back into more trouble.

Effort and family lineage.

You trace it all back, all the hints he's given you, the things he won't tell you. It really is like a puzzle; Leona is only fragments to you, safely guarding something he is struggling with. Or did you just want him to be troubled? Will you love him more if he is suffering? Did you need an excuse for his actions? Maybe Leona is not the martyr you suspect of him. Maybe he really is just a no-good black sheep from the royal family.

But you think you could relate to that too. At the edge of a party where you are not welcome.

You are not as free as you think. Just as the rest of you file away, chatting about the match tomorrow, all your prospects and bravado, you feel his heavy hand clutch your shoulder and ease you back a bit towards him.

"Ruggie," he half-whispers in your ear, soft and certain, "come to my room tonight. I want to see you."

You freeze up, hit with the sense of dejavu. You blink, and you wonder why Leona's voice sounds so far away from you, like a hollow echo. You nod, and he removes his hand and passes by you, with little presence, like a ghost passing through. You stand there, watching him leave without so much as a look back at you. You stir with something, but you don't know what. The two of you keep coming back to these moments, assailed with your daily terrors and then return to your nightly reprieves. You are getting tired of your cycle. You swear, if he's going to come crying to you again, you will leave that room without a word. You swear to yourself that. You doubt you'll actually follow through with it.

You wonder if he just wants to make love. You _hope_ it's that. You two have been dancing around this silly prospect of _more_ and you hate it. You have better things you want than the heart of a pitiful prince. He's being stubborn with you; you just want to be bedded without strings attached. He seems to have forgotten the unspoken deal you both have made in pursuit of his own weakness. It's sort of irritating how things are so easy in theory, but things have gotten so complicated between you two. You're not one for melodramatic ventures, and wonder how you can cut yourself out of this tangled mess.

You are thinking these terrible, sadistic things because you worry about the other option. That if he just wants the confession then he is giving you not just himself, but also implying some sort of ending.

Leona is himself when he is prideful, when he is strong and unstoppable. Something is wrong if he is honest about his wounds, and comes to you hurt and pleading.

The arguments with his brother. The tense topic of the palace. Avoidance and hostility and the desperate reaching and then retreating.

You once heard that if a cat is near death it will hide away and die in graceful silence.

You wonder if it's a lot like that.

* * *

You do not make love that night. This will be stated first; you never made love that night.

You would never describe that night to anyone. What happened in that room, what you two talked about, is only meant to exist between you and Leona. His words and his ferocity and your dark realizations. It was the most vulnerable and most defensive you have, and ever will, see of him. This is not said with love. This is stated with warning. That to know someone is not necessarily a privilege, but certainly an undertaking. You know Leona. Even the ugly parts of him, the pitiful parts of him, you saw. That night is the most honest he has been, to a point where it scared you. This should be stated too: he's not a bad person. He's a bastard and a prideful terror, but he's not a bad person.

But anyone would feel ill seeing the festering wounds on someone's soul.

It began not like a dream, but like a nightmare.

His room is dark when you enter. The door had been unlocked. The moon does not provide enough light in the room, and all you can make out is vague, black shapes of his furniture like a jagged skyline. You struggle to see where he is and tentatively step forward. Every other time you have been here he at least had the decency to let you know where he is. To be in view so you know you are not alone. It feels off to not know where he is. You want to guess he is messing with you; maybe you just missed him. Maybe you came too early. You give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Leona?"

Before you can even announce your presence further, you feel someone grab your arm and drag you down. You jolt in fright as the world rushes. It takes you only a second to catch his scent, and realize it's him.

He practically pounces from the shadows and he pulls you down onto the bed. You flinch for the kiss, but it doesn't come. Instead, he just holds you hard and fierce and you both fall backwards onto the bed in a warm and desperate pile. He is on top of you, his warmth and scent covering you, and you feel the world upended. Your heart is pounding at the suddenness of it all, but then you calm down seeing nothing else is being done. It confuses you, but you take it in stride. You're on guard, but try to convince yourself it's nothing. You reach up and wrap your arms around him in kind, hands riding against the fabric of his shirt, tentative like he was made of glass. Your fingers meet on the middle of his back, right on the rigid bone of his spine.

" _Leona_ ," you laugh, teasing, voice softened in the night, "If this is all you wanted, you just had to ask."

He says nothing. You wait for something else, but instead you just hear the silent hiss of his breath.

"Leona?"

He suddenly buries his face in your neck and you freeze up. You feel the heat of his breath tickle you and feel the instinctual stopping of your own. His bedsheets are a mess below you, his body on top of you, cushioning you against their soft embrace. If you looked up, tilted your head as far back as it could go, you would see the oppressive night sky, the stars shining dim and scattered there. The dorm is quiet, the moonlight dying you two blue in its bare colors, and you feel like an animal on a hunt. Waiting for the right moment to attack. Waiting for the moment you will be attacked. You are all patience and tension, feeling the beat of your own heart. The soft weight of him pressed against you. Usually when you two are intimate it's all action, fast and needy, but now it's so still it unnerves you. You feel his face against your neck, sensitive skin receptive to his proximity. His hair is splayed around you and his smell is familiar to you. Comfortable because it is known.

"...Sleep with me tonight." He finally says and you blink. You don't ease up because you're still on high alert.

"Ok?"

"Not like that." He immediately corrects you, "Just sleep with me tonight."

Your stomach sinks at the implication. You try to think of an excuse to give, some offhand insult to cushion this, but he's too fast for you. When Leona wants something, he takes it. You yelp as he hooks an arm against your back tighter and drags you into a different position with him. You give up any chance of a fight and just adjust with him, wordless communication, if annoyed at the impulse of it. Soon enough you two are spooning, Leona behind you, arm thrown over you in casual possession, breathing a tired sigh into your hair. You flush, but you don't know why. It's not as if the two of you haven't cuddled like this. Never with clothes on, though. You feel him throw the blanket on you two, and you are now completely surrounded by his scent, by warmth, something intimate and sweet.

Something is wrong.

It's not even the intimacy that makes you think this. Instead it's the undercurrent of something worse. Like an innate instinct telling you this is the beginning of something worse; you will remember this later. It will seem so obvious to you in the future. Just the primal parts of you prickling in anticipation. But tonight, you just ignored it. You assume it's your own antsiness to the proximity, the love.

You watch the constellation patterns, still feeling his breath on you. His face is practically buried into the crook of your neck, and you are thankful he can't see your face. He's rather insistent on this, you think, on burying himself against your sensitive neck. But that's okay, you decide. If you were turned to look at each other, that would be just too much to handle. You think of asking his intentions, but think better of it. Instead, you take the similar stance of your pillow talk, even if the precursor had been skipped.

"Leona."

"Hn?"

He says this muffled against you, barely a grunt. You blink, and relax under his hold.

"Are you worried about tomorrow?"

Immediately, he laughs.

"Why? Everything has been going to plan." He says, voice steady against you, "Tomorrow Malleus is going to get what's been coming to him."

You smile at this. His tone is better compared to before and you like that. Maybe you had been thinking too hard about things. You have nothing concrete for your cagey worries and so you try to let them go. Maybe he just wanted some company tonight. Maybe he's just playing tough guy with you and not confessing what he really wants. Not the first time he's been stubborn with you. And you try to make this casual despite his actions, for the safety and the status quo.

"It's been a long time coming." You gloat. You reach down, shrugging off your boots, his arm still draped over you. He just watches you as you throw them to the side. "Can you believe we've come this far?"

"It hasn't been that long."

"It's all thanks to your planning." You confess, settling back into his hold, words honest, "You did well."

He says nothing. It's rare when your compliments have backing without some sarcastic bite to it. You reach up, undoing the scarf around your neck, wondering if he'll be annoyed with all your movement. Maybe he likes the commitment it is, that you are showing him you are settling in for the night. The fabric slips against your neck, ruffling the hair on the nape of your neck, as you pull it off. He does not shift, although you're sure it's also brushing against him, against his cheek. You hold it above the floor, your arm outstretched, and it's then he moves, and sighs into you again.

"It's too early to say things like that."

"Are you still thinking about what they said?"

"Huh?"

"During the meeting." You tell him, the scarf falling from your fingers artfully, "You know, about you being made king."

Leona says nothing, but you don't feel scared of this. You don't even feel kind. You say this bluntly without gentleness or consideration. The scarf settles gracefully on the floor, a bright yellow pile in scant moonlight. His silence stretches on enough that you cannot help yourself. You've never held back with him and there's no reason to now. You scoff, verbally pushing him forth.

"Oh come on, do you even have to be gloomy now?" You tease him, mocking his unsaid, assumed words, "We're doing well, aren't we? You getting cold feet?"

You're cruel here, but it's because you don't know the full story. You're just placed in an awkward situation and trying to talk like you used to. You bring him up, and then bring him down again. But you don't know you do this. You're just trying to get him to talk, and pointing out to him how very badly he tries to hide from you. You feel him move, and he grabs your outstretched arm. Very gently, he pulls it back down, and you let him. You think it's such a strange sight, your skinny pale arm encircled by his strong hand. You watch as your elbow bends and he folds you back into you two. He keeps his hold there, on your bony wrist, held against your heart, and then laughs. The rumbling of his chest is gentle against your back.

"Of course not." He says cocky, "Of course things are going to go well tomorrow. It just pisses me off to hear people talk about things they don't know about."

His tone is confident but you begin to feel nervous there. There's something about how he's holding you. You keep ignoring warning signs.

"So you're mad?"

"I'm just sick of it." He sighs, "It's so damn irritating. Being looked down by both of them."

"...Both of them?"

"Hey, Ruggie." Leona addresses you and your ear twitches from the closeness of his voice, "You're not just fucking with me, right? You really think this will go well?"

"I mean, it better." You shrug, "We put in all this effort. It _better_ go well."

"So that's all it takes for you?" He asks and rubs his thumb against the outside of your hand, "That if you tried hard enough, it will work out?"

You blink. Something sharp edges Leona's voice here, not exactly a threat, but not really a neediness. It's like something in between and you try to get what he's saying. This wasn't confiding; not what he's done before. There's no love in this. Instead he was asking things from you, putting you in the spotlight to reinforce his own stance. You glance down at his large hand over your wrist, how soft it felt. And yet it bothers you; the pressure of his hold against you. It's not exactly strangling, but not really gentle. He's all in between now; halfway threatening but also drawing back, making you doubt yourself. You begin to tread carefully here, try to not let on your suspicion. 

"I mean, of course. If you work hard enough you can get what you want. Hyenas are very persistent, you know."

"I've noticed."

"Shut up." You laugh, beginning to doubt yourself again. You heard the smirk in his voice, "I'm serious. Why are you asking?"

"I bet," he ignores you, "I bet Malleus hasn't worked for anything in his life."

You think about this. You've already thought about this yourself, his strength he was born with, the throne he was born to. But you don't agree with him. This sounds so similar to your usual complaining and snappy comebacks, the banter you two have, mocking the world and your place in it. But maybe it's this room. Maybe it's his mood. It sounds less like him to you, but like a hollow echo from the depth of a cave. Something mimicking him, trying to lure you in. You decide to say nothing, letting his own silence answer for you. You were right to assume he didn't want your answer anyway. He chuckles again, darkly into your hair, barring your escape.

"It's annoying, isn't it? I'm sick of people like that, too. Looking down on me, but they didn't even do anything to get that privilege." He shakes his head, and you can feel the movement on the back of your head, "Didn't work for it, but thinks the world owes them."

You blink. You grow cold, recognizing those words. You just blankly stare at the shadow patterns on his bedroom floor. You suddenly feel very small held there by him, suddenly feel like you're very easy to break.

"Farena," he finally says, the taboo subject between you two, "Farena is like that, too."

It was like inviting in a ghost, like the final incantation for a curse. You have nothing personal against the king, but you know that Leona, for all his hiding and his secrets, at least gave you one hint. You remember back to his tense phone call, when he reached out to you during break. You know nothing about the royal family, but you know all families have their secrets no matter how gifted. And you have mistakenly chalked up all his grievance with just the rebellious nature of a black sheep. But you don't know. You thought you'd have all the pieces by this point, but you still don't know anything.

You blink, trying to trace the patterns on his bedroom floor, trying to separate yourself from the anxiety his embrace gives. Your shoulders are tense.

"Your," you gulp, wondering if you should even talk, "Your brother?"

"Do you know how the king gets chosen, Ruggie?" He asks you, voice strong next to your shaking tone, "Did you learn that in school or do they not teach that stuff to hyenas?"

He says this jokingly, but the teasing just feels like a stab to your heart. You feel like you are walking down a long, dark cave with no idea what was at the end. What was in the shadows.

"Remind me." You tell him.

"It's so stupid. It's all decided by birth order. How old-fashioned is that, huh?" He explains to you with clear spite in his voice, "Farena's only king because he was born first."

You say nothing. His voice has a menacing edge to it, like he wants to impart his anger to you, wants you to feel his wrath. You're more worried that he's suddenly talking about his brother unbidden. This was just a school's game, just a boyish plan to rig the game. So why talk about this?

It's a bad sign.

"He's so easygoing. Never had to work for anything. Don't guys like that piss you off?"

"I-"

"It must be nice to just be handed things. But he still thinks he's got any right to tell me off."

You recall the phone conversation you heard between them. His brother's small and weak voice. It all begins to feel like a storm hidden behind a door. You should have never entered that room. All this time you had been envious of the royal family for their fortune, but you never knew the snake hiding in their gardens. 

"He keeps telling me I can still work for the kingdom. Like I'd be happy with his table scraps." He mocks, burying his face more into you. Like he was hiding. You shiver.

"Leona?"

"If he wants me to help so bad," Leona says quietly, sinister, "He should just disappear already so I can lead."

Your voice fails you. A very eerie silence settles in after his words, the implications. You're just staring out at nothing now. There is no sound save for the equal rising of his breath, and you can feel the heat of him. Before he had felt like a ghost haunting these halls, but now he's so warm and present, unbearably there. Not a wisp of a man, lost and listless, but a flesh-and-bone, vengeful thing. It had been so easy to write off everything as just his rebellion. Called it bratty nature and called it a day. But what he says here, this terrible confession, feels so much more vicious, desperate, like dark secrets hidden away. The existence of them shakes you, but not as much as his boasting of them. Like he was not ashamed of this.

Like he had been nursing these ugly feelings so long, he decided to give them attention.

You do not think of the terrible things people think. It is a simple addition to being alive. Everyone has things they think, things they want, but are too scared to make real. Everyone has skeletons in their closets whether they are real or imagined. This does not shock you; rather what is shocking is when someone admits them without shame. Like he was testing out this stage, and proud of that sinful hate. Similarly you had not considered Leona was hiding so much from you. The breadth of it, the truth of it, begins to make you feel ill. Not just from its weight but also….

Why is he telling you this?

Why now, of all times, is he telling you this?

He holds you so close, but you still feel so, so cold.

"Ruggie," He finally addresses you after that long, terrible silence, "you agree with me, right?"

"...Huh?"

"Do you like living in the slums?" He asks you, daring and persuasive. His voice is sweet like honey now, with a growl at its edge, "You can't tell me you actually like that, right?"

It feels like a precise hit to your soul. You feel sensitive to having your upbringing brought up here, but you can't say why. You were hesitant before when he's taken interest in your background, but ultimately felt seen when he did. Felt known. Here, it just feels like agitating a wound. Like something had swiped at your ankles, that you had accidently walked into dangerous territory and been noticed. You are no longer the audience to his confession; you are now asked to speak.

"...No."

"If it was me." He confesses, "If it was me you wouldn't have ended up there."

You pause on this. You were always trying to get the feel of a conversation, cautious of the world in a way to ensure your survival. His message escapes you here because it _sounds_ kind, but you don't know if you are just _wanting_ it to be kind. He could very well just be trying to charm you, but you know Leona is incapable of charm just as much as he is incapable of being tamed. Your history together spans behind you, a long road leading you here and you know there's something to this. All of this. You're thinking back to your discussion on the field, the last time he placed his face against your neck, and there it had felt like a confession. You cannot tell if this time he is intending that same effect, or if he is threatening to rip your throat out.

"...Leona." You say softly, sort of pitying. You cannot see him, but you are sensing the hurt in his voice. You've always asked for more from him, context to his moods, and now you feel bare being given it. He was giving it to you now but without permission. Why is he telling you? You keep catching on this question. It's always you, but why does it always have to be you?

He had chosen you to serve him. He had chosen you that night in front of the bonfire. You were the one blessed with the prince's kiss, with his love, his body, his attention. You were chosen to carry out his crooked plan, to strike the killing blow. Tonight he chose you to listen to his sins. Tonight he promises you-- _you_ , the dirty hyena from the slums--the gift of his potential.

You feel both afraid and insecure. Previously you have flinched at his affections but now you feel like you're trying to hold something together that will break any moment. With viciousness. With its sadness.

"Ruggie," he says with some sinister love, "it would have been different."

You wonder if that was a promise or some yearning dream. You think about it; it's not as if you haven't had the thought either. Everyone from the slums has probably dreamt about it one time or another. If you had been born into a different time, a better place. Got to parade around like all these other spoiled kids, without a worry in the world whether it was the future or your next meal. If your grandmother didn't have to worry about raising you, about the bills. If all the poor souls you know didn't exist with the overwhelming pressure of their poverty. See, here's the funny thing; when you dream like this, you end up bringing the rest of the slums in on it. Like, even mentally, you could not bear to leave them behind. You have known similar crooks and bastards just like you, and you have known saints and martyrs too. But you think neither of it matters; that morality did not have dictation on whether one should be allowed to eat. That a life should be given the chance to live if they wanted to.

It's rather sweet of you, admittedly. But you can be kind where it counts.

And you wonder if it would have been different. Is he right? If Leona was king, would things have changed? Can he promise you such a beautiful thing? You think of his struggle, and his hatred, his dark confession to you. If Farena had not been born first, if Leona had finally been given some recognition. Is he wrong to want to be seen? Is he choking on his own pride, or is he the pitiful missed chance, left behind? And why you? What is he looking for from you?

You try to picture it. The possibilities if things had been different. But try as you might, nothing manifests. And your heart beats as you realize why.

"...I don't need it."

"What?"

"You don't…you don't have to give me anything like that."

Your voice wavers, in shocked realization. You cannot even begin to think of the person you would be, cannot even picture the past. So much of you has been shaped by that hellhole, by the cruelty of people. So much of you is tied to the trash and the dirt and the sneering looks and your unworthy presence. You are who you are because the world called you a dirty hyena and you told it to go fuck itself. You don't take pride in that. Where is the pride in that? But very simply, you know there is nothing to change because if it had been, you would not be here now.

And you think of Leona too. The things he wants, the person he needed to be. And you think of all the things you respect of him, the things you look up to. Why can't he see it? You keep coming back to this; why can't he see any of it? Is he blind, or have you been taken in by him? But you think of the person Leona is trying to offer you here, the person he promises to you, and you begin to tear up.

You're both so damn stupid.

"You don't have to give me anything, you know."

"Ruggie-"

"I'm fine with this." You struggle to be heard, voice choking up, "I'm fine with you."

It sits there between you two. And you feel like the breath has been knocked out of you. 

If this was a prettier story, this would be enough. If this was a simpler story, it would end here.

But you still don't know him as much as you thought you did. You still only have the puzzle pieces, and not the complete picture. You _think_ you knew him because he has confided in you so much, but there is still so much you don't know.

The arguments with his brother. The tense topic of the palace. Avoidance and hostility and the desperate reaching and then retreating. It's all just threads of a bigger storm, and you are just a hyena from the slums.

"You." He says stoically, "What do you think you're saying?"

"Huh?"

"Do you think you have any right to say that?"

"Leona?"

His hold on your wrist loosens. He slides his hand away from it, and just places his hand on the outside of your forearm. He gently lays it there, the warmth of it tingling against your skin. He is not holding you anymore; he is not protecting you. Instead he just puts pressure on you to know he's still here.

"Then why the hell did you help me?" He hisses into your ear, and your stomach drops.

"I…"

"All those people we hurt. All that sneaking around you did. When I told you this plan, you were all for it. So why the change of heart?"

You stare out at nothing. You feel like a criminal being read your sentence.

Ruggie Bucchi.

You are just a hyena from the slums.

And you are so _fucking_ stupid.

Leona sighs into you again, with tired acceptance, like he was having to handle a problem he should not have to. Like you had bothered him with your words and he had to carry out the thankless job of killing them. He begins to move, and his hand slips away to grasp at your thin bony shoulder. His entire hand cups it, and you feel like he will take a bite from you any second now

"Look; don't treat me like some idiot, alright?" He tells you firmly, exhausted by your idiocy, "I know you're using me. This entire time, you've been using me."

"That's not-"

"You want the reward, right? I'm not mad. Actually, that's just fine with me."

He pushes against your shoulder gently for leverage, and you feel the bed shift behind you. The blanket slips away from your body, as it's pulled by his movement. You look behind you, frightened, and Leona is now sitting there. The blanket hangs off his shoulders like he was some prophet, and his eyes are dead. They look down at you with both contempt and honor, his hair hanging wild in rich waves. His green eyes practically glow in the shadows, and his expression is chilling. You cannot tell which resignation he shows; whether he was accepting his execution at your hands or his.

"You can use me all you like." He tells you, "I'll take care of you if you need it. That's what a king does, right?"

You say nothing. You watch in both awe and horror. He smiles at you, crooked and confident.

"Ruggie," he promises you, love twisting into his words, "If you come to me hungry, I'll feed you."

(It rushes through your mind, all of it. Hierarchies and dreams and needs and wants. What does it mean to follow? What does it mean to lead? Is there honor in being used? So long as you, yourself, are fed it's fine, isn't it?)

Using each other and cannibalizing each other's pain to feed yourself. Work for me and I shall work for you. It sounded so equal, so easy, so possible. The rules you both had been following to satisfy your own egos. You are not looking at Leona now. You are not sure who you are looking at right now. But he looks resplendent in the shadows, strong and capable and ruthless. Fueled by his own emptiness to be given any sort of attention. There is nothing in his eyes now but his own hunger and need to please you. He is a monster.

You are also a monster.

_You never tell me anything._

"Ruggie," he says softly, "Are you crying?"

Before the storm can hit you, before you lose out to your own self, you act. You get up and he watches you passively as you lunge for him. To this day, you don't know why you chose to kiss him then. Why your first impulse was to grab at him and claim his lips with your own. Perhaps you wanted to return to something you know. Maybe you wanted to grant him your worship. You wanted to hold Leona close before he broke into a million pieces, while he was still within your reach. You're grabbing him by the shoulders, your fingers curling against the blanket around his shoulders. He leans into you, taking your gift, and his mouth was hot and his fangs pricked at you.

Kissing him, holding him there, you only thought of one thing. And to this day, it scares you, and you still can't understand why:

Kissing Leona made you crave raw meat. All you could think of was raw, bloody meat. Tasting him made you hungry.

_Feed me, feed me, feed me._

Parts of you, all mixed up and passionate, thought he was incredibly delicious.

* * *

As said before, you didn't make love that night.

You can't remember anything else that happened. You sure as hell didn't say anything to him; as if you would dissuade him this far into the game. Besides, despite the crushing realization, you still tried to bury it away. You are a frightful thing; you want things to be okay. That's all you know. You just want it to be all okay.

You both ended up sleeping together, just as he had wanted, cuddled up, and Leona had held you so tight like you could disappear any moment. But he didn't want your body. You wish you knew what he wanted already, but he's an insatiable thing, and you will always be too poor to understand him.

You wake up in the middle of that night, parched. When you wake up you feel off, like you're in an upturned dream. He's hot against you, but still deeply asleep. Everything that happened settles on you relentlessly, and you feel yourself ache with numbness. You slide your eyes away from him. You instead shrug his arm off you, and head for the bathroom. He doesn't even stir.

The dorm is quiet with the heavy night. You drink directly from the sink like an animal at a watering hole, cupping it in your hands, and quenching your thirst. You turn off the faucet and feel more alone there, and look up at yourself in the mirror. You look the same as always, which is surreal. Your eyes are slightly red from crying, and you sniffle. Your hair is messy from the bed, but it's like any other time you've woken up. You haven't grown an inch since you came here, you think distantly. Still that tiny thing from the slums.

You try to feel something, but nothing comes to the surface. You are just tired, and nothing has changed. You should just go back to sleep; tomorrow will be a big day.

It's just a game, you think distantly. That's all it really is, but maybe you are both fighting for something more. 

Just one little victory. Just something to show that the world could be changed. There is a chance, even if it meant climbing over the bodies you left in your wake. Just one victory to hold tight in your sea of losses.

But then again, maybe this is just you, Ruggie. Maybe _you_ are the one making it more, to feel justified for all your aimless hate.

Leona sleeps restfully in his bed, and you watch him for a moment. He breathes evenly in the moonlight, resting beast and his wild mane. Still nothing comes; your heart is empty and your body is weary. Your eye catches on his bedside table, and you were the first, and only, person to see it.

You blink. Without thinking, you pick up his pen, and there is a nudging feeling that something is wrong with it. You focus on the gem, and finally notice it. At first, you surprise yourself by chuckling. Still messy as always, you had thought. Automatically, you try to clean it on the edge of your shirt, like going through the motions.

But when you bring it up to the light, you see the gem is still smoky, a mixture of yellow and black. It's strange, like it is tendrils curling through the sunrise yellow.

Like ink dropped into water.

You go cold.

We must stress, again, that you are not a good person.

This is when it surges forth; when finally something stirs in your heart. It begins small and then overcomes you like adrenaline, powerful and like a tidal wave. Your neck burns with some fierce emotion and you flush, your throat tightening. You do not cry. You fight back the tears. Instead you hold the pen close to your chest like it was a secret to hide, something delicate to protect. Your heart beats, and you furrow your brows. 

You are filled with resolve.

This has to work.

You are going to make damn sure this works.


	15. You Never Let Me Down

You learned your lessons young.

They are painful but necessary things, these lessons. They are inevitable with growth. It was much like death, and there was plenty of that in the place you grew up. For many times you wondered what separated you from the privileged. Thinking long and hard, you realize it's just timing. Looking up at those gleaming pedestals, you realize those people, lofty and full, had the gift of time. They could take their leisurely strolls towards the necessary pains. They could put off grief and wounds. If you have enough money, you can keep enough sadness at bay that it won't even exist to you. To live is the eventual walk towards death. Your grandmother soothed you with enough stories to know this harsh fact. She cushioned its inevitability with wise platitudes. All life begins and ends like the rising and setting of the sun. All death means is a new beginning. Sometimes she told you this lovingly, when you first cried at the realization. Later, if you insisted on your tears, she would cruelly remind you with the short temper of a caretaker pushed to their limit. And you understood, but you realize the difference between you and the fortunate was that they could hold off the sad necessities. They could afford it.

So you struggle to find love in your heart for the privileged. You struggle to feel for them because you know they will never look back at you with the same love. Pain is necessary in the slums. It is unavoidable.

It's a wonder anyone expected you to stay a saint when you lived with these truths. How else they expected you to survive. 

You had to live with that, so why should you protect someone who would never know your hungry nights? Could not understand your pain?

You only stumbled once, growing up. All the children from the slums abandoned their childhood eventually in pursuit of life. You all learned your lessons, and honestly, you were a star student among them. You traded in your morality early, picking pockets and stealing for survival. You took to it like a fish to water; you never struggled with the finer details. All you knew, all you had to know, was that you were hungry and you made damn sure you got to eat. The world was easily divided as soon as you realized its unsaid rules. The powerful get to eat. The weaker get to die. It was just a matter of choosing who got to be what, and you knew no matter what you could never be at the bottom. It's hard to say when you lost the wide-eyed innocence we are all born with. It may be that you were too young to even remember that unburnished time. For as long as you can remember, you've always had that slight weight of maturity on your shoulders, a burgeoning gift of your graduation. You're not a good person, Ruggie. You never struggled with your necessary crimes or its harsh consequences.

Except once.

Only once.

You don't even know her name.

You were eleven years old.

It was late noon. The slums were still busy with activity; rundown cars driving back home, driven by rundown people seeking the solace of home from work. There are a variety of bus stops that dot the streets and they are nothing fancy. Just a sign and a rusted bench. Hell, you're lucky if you even get the bench if there was not someone already sleeping on it. There are plenty down here, because even a shitty car is luxury in the slums. You live in a poor neighborhood like everyone else but your grandmother always said you guys were lucky just because of where you were. Couple of blocks from the store. But most importantly, only a small walk from the bus stop, one of the lines that would drive you downtown. It even had one of those rare overhangings. Well, it would guard you from the rain if you stood in the right spot; someone had knocked out the glass in a corner, and the city never came by to repair it. But all things considering, it was pretty reliable.

Your grandmother is like you; a master of part-time jobs, a firm believer in the philosophy that if your hands can move, you will be able to make money. It's who you learned it from. She's done a number of things to make sure you guys could survive; she's worked as a cook, a house-cleaner, a caretaker. To be honest, the finer details are irrelevant. What you remember most was that her work always took her downtown, where the money was. Where the rich were. And so a lot of your afternoons were spent at that bus stop waiting for her to come back home.

She always scolded you for it; don't need you on the streets this late. It's sweet, but don't be stupid, boy. I can walk back home perfectly fine on my own. But you're a stubborn little thing, and eventually her exasperation relaxed into the actual relief it had been hiding. You would carry her things, and you two would walk side-by-side back home. You remember those walks like the back of your hand now. A permanent fixture of your childhood. 

The wait wasn't too bad either. You met plenty of colorful characters waiting at that bus stop, and sometimes your neighbors would stop and chat if they spotted you during their errands. But you don't know how to explain it; that afternoon was like a dream. It stuck out awkwardly among the peaceful landscape of your memories. She was different. And you could try to articulate with as many pretty words as you liked, try to make it sound amazing and beautiful, but you know the real reason was as plain and bizarre as when you first saw her.

She was a lioness.

And she was crying.

When you rounded the street corner you were struck with surprise at the sight of her. You thought you heard something with your acute hearing but you could have never predicted _this_. She was tall, you could tell that much, even if she was sitting on the bench, hunched over, her face in her hands as she sobbed. Her hair was cut short, like most lioness' are, and her ears were reeled back, her tail curving behind her. She was comfortably dressed, and although the clothes were casual, they were still well-kept. By instinct, you note the golden bracelets hanging on her wrists, three shiny bangles resting against the inside of her elbow. She was sitting on the far end of the rusting bench, tucked away in the corner like a forgotten doll. Funnily enough, that's what she reminded you most of all. Despite her height, and her animal features, all you could think of was a pretty doll, sitting neglected on a far shelf.

You first look behind you, and then back at her. For some reason, you thought someone was pulling a strange joke on you right now. The street is barren, and dyed in intense oranges from the setting sun. The bus stop's sign casts a dark, long shadow on the street. She keeps crying, and you stand there awkwardly wondering if you should just go back home, or stay.

Not to say it's your first time seeing someone crying here of course. You've seen plenty of people just having their spontaneous breakdowns in this liminal space, in between here and there. Old men, young ladies, children, even people you recognize. But a place like this had its own set of weird social rules, and it was wordlessly agreed that you just ignore stuff like that. Give people their space. But this is the first time you've seen a _lioness_ crying and so you struggle for a bit. It's also rare to see a lioness at all in the slums, at least one so vulnerable. You're young, so you just default to what you know out of helpless confusion. Assume that it's none of your business, don't make it your business, and act like she's not even there. Your threadbare sandals slap against the ground as you take the seat on the opposite, farthest end. She's jumpy; as soon as you sit down, make your presence known, she stops and looks at you. She's young; pretty. Instantly, you look away, mortified for some reason. Try to send the wordless thought that you were blatantly ignoring her and encouraging her to do the same. Your mind races with embarrassed thoughts, too young to realize how you got here, and too naïve to know how to handle it. Her eyes were golden; they reminded you of the golden gleam of honey your grandmother stirred into her tea. 

She looks as old as the fruit-seller's daughter; the one that wears too much makeup. The one that always pinched your cheeks whenever you came to market and called you 'honey' and 'darling'. Early twenties, maybe. Definitely more subdued and definitely less guarded.

In an effort to get your mind on anything else, you look down shyly at your feet. You examine your sandals; the strap on the left one is broken. Your grandmother repaired it with tape, and she's been telling you not to run in them so it won't snap again. You've been gingerly walking a lot these days to preserve shoes you can't afford to replace. Your eyes wander; she's wearing fancy platform sandals. Her legs are long and muscled, tan and strong. She's a healthy, sun-kissed brown, next to your ghostly, gangly legs. You're old enough now to start admiring long legs, people you had to look up at.

"Hey," she says suddenly, and her voice is lighter than you thought it would be, "Hey, how old are you?"

"Huh?"

You reply automatically, like a teacher had called on you, and you immediately regret it. You look up, feeling ruffled for no reason other than you're a kid dealing with a crying adult. Her eyes are red, her cheeks tear-stained. She looks at you wide-eyed like some cautious mouse. You should've just ignored her. Hell, _she_ should have just ignored _you_ , and you begin to feel a little annoyed with her.

"Hey, you're just a kid, right?" She asks you gently, sniffles, "Where are your parents? Isn't it too late for you to be out here?"

You blink. _What the hell?_ Your first reaction is to be incredulously offended. Here she is, crying her eyes out in public, and she just turns around and asks if _you_ are okay? Does she not realize how she looks right now, or is she stupid? People that age are supposed to know better right? If it was anyone else from your neighborhood they would know better than to ask you a stupid question like that, especially if they had been caught in such an awkward position. You look behind you again, as if someone would come explain this absurd moment, but obviously no one is there. You look back at her. Up at her. Damn, she _is_ tall.

"I'm waiting for my grandma," You tell her, at a loss of how else to explain yourself. At a loss of _why_ you had to explain yourself. She blinks, and then her face softens into a knowing smile, like she finally spotted a familiar face in a crowd. At least she stopped crying. 

"That's sweet of you," she comments, as if you needed her approval. "That's such a sweet thing for you to do."

She blinks rapidly then, and then looks away, remembering something. You watch her in cautious fascination, and she reaches into the purse on her shoulder, rummaging in it. You can hear the clinking of her gold bangles on her wrists, watch as they catch bare sunlight and dance. Your hand begins to itch, but before you get any more ideas she finds what she had been looking for. She holds it out to you, her bracelets glittering; a bag of candy. It's cartoonishly colored compared to the rest of her.

"Here." She smiles, sniffles again, "We're gonna be waiting here awhile, right?"

You look at it, and then her. You practically lunge for it, feel the sugary surge of strawberry in your mouth when you eat it. She was weird, but you're never one to turn down free candy either. She just giggles at your speed, and you blush at how feral you must look to her now. If she thought that, she didn't show it or say it. You decide to let go of any apprehensive misgivings you had before. She was right anyway; you guys would be waiting awhile. And hell, how bad could a lion be when she gave you free sweets anyway?

"Are you also waiting for someone?" You ask her, still crunching at candy. She's looking through her purse again, and you watch as she produces a cigarette pack and lighter. She shakes out a cigarette, her gold bangles dancing on her wrist as she did.

"I am. My boyfriend. I told him I'd meet him here after he got off work." She tells you, voice sweet in that way one would use talking to a kid. She sort of rushed through her sentences with some nervous energy, like she'd been dying to talk but had just waited for an audience, "He lives in this neighborhood, actually."

You wonder if you know him. You can't imagine any hyena would keep secret if they were dating a lion though. Not that it was unheard of, but it was rare enough and you're a bragging kind of people anyway. Already you're assuming the worst; maybe she got duped into a scam. Sure dressed like someone who would be targeted. You watch as she flicks the lighter, before finally getting flame, and lights her cigarette. Her eyes are half-lidded in concentration, and for a brief moment you think she looks extra cool and handsome. The familiar scent of tobacco springs forth in the air, and she blows out some smoke. She's turned away from you as she does, polite in such subtle ways. She sniffles again, delicate when she was sad. 

"...Is that why you were crying?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Did your boyfriend make you cry?"

She looks at you surprised, but you asked all this with the same cadence as a kid talking about their favorite show. She must be surprised about how easily you could ask about such sensitive things. You're noticing all these little tells about her, and it's becoming more clear to you that she's clearly not from here. The air is hot despite the sun setting, and she smiles at you awkwardly. You cannot tell if it's because she feels humbled or bewildered. Her honey golden eyes look downward, and she holds her cigarette delicately. Another sign she's not from here. She treated smoking like a luxury, same as you treated the candy. Done on special occasions, not for numbing necessity like the other adults you know.

"No, no. He didn't make me cry." She shakes her head, one of her ears twitching, "More like I made myself cry."

"What's that mean?"

She looks nervous to be interrogated by a kid, but you reason _she_ was the one who started a conversation. She should have known bringing attention to herself would just bring questions. You kick your legs as you wait for her to gather herself and her story. Didn't matter to you if she lied, to be honest, but you also got the feeling the thought didn't occur to her.

"I, uh," She shrugs, "Guess I'm just feeling nervous."

"'Cause?"

"I'm, um," she takes a nervous draw from her cigarette, "I'm not really supposed to be here."

 _No shit._ You think, amused, _You stick out like a sore thumb._

"Hey, what's your name?" She asks you instead. You can tell she's trying to change the subject, or trying to lighten the mood. Her voice is too shaky to hide its intended worry. You don't take the bait, and instead lean back on your hands. You're still kicking your legs and can feel the struggle of that broken sandal strap against your toes. You tilt your head, curious, eyeing her purse.

"You got any more candy?"

"Huh? Oh." She follows your line of sight, and looks down at her purse. Without worry she pulls it down from her shoulder, and places it between you two. You catch glimpses of what's inside as she looks around in there. Wallet, coins, _lots_ of government documents. She pulls out a bag of candies then, and you look back up, acting none the wiser. She holds it out to you.

"Here. We can share. You must be hungry, huh?"

You smile as you think what an idiot she is. Just laying it all out there. God, it would be so easy to just snatch all that up and make a run for it, sandals be damned. But also you're a kid being handed hard candy and so you decide to let the impulse go in lieu of instant gratification. You dig into the bag with your grabby hands, and heft out a big handful. You get to work unwrapping one, watching from the corner of your eye as she takes another draw, putting the bag in between you two. She doesn't take a candy, instead choosing to keep nursing that cigarette she's got. You pop one into your mouth. Lemon.

"Ruggie."

"Oh?"

"That's my name. It's Ruggie." You tell her with a full mouth, "Why aren't you supposed to be here? Are you in trouble?"

She laughs like you've told a cute joke, and it reminds you of twittering songbirds.

"No. I mean, kinda." She wipes at her eyes, "I guess I'm in trouble with my parents."

"Did you do something to piss them off?"

She looks at you aghast, shocked at your casual swearing. For a moment you dread to think if she's about to give you a sermon, but she seems to think better of it. You must be a real shock to her, you wonder, all crude and nonchalant.

"I guess." She rubs the back of her neck, "They don't...they don't like my boyfriend."

She sits forward then, elbows on her knees. She holds the cigarette in between her fingers, her other hand fidgeting with her bracelets. Her tail swishes back and forth and you can tell she's deciding on something but you can't tell what. You have little investment in the conversation other than as an excuse to pass the time. You pop another candy in your mouth, crush it with your fangs, as you wait for her to decide her next move. This one tastes like oranges. You watch her with mild interest, like you were watching a butterfly in a garden.

"See, he...he works for us." She begins, watching the end of her cigarette, shaking off the ash, "My family is...rich."

She says this last bit with some apprehension like it was a shameful fact. You wonder why rich people are like that. They always get cagey when they gotta talk about money, like they were embarrassed to have so much. Even at this age, it ticked you off.

"But he's sweet to me. He's so kind. He treats me well. But when my parents found out they just…"

"They got mad?"

"Yeah." She nods, still looking down, "Yes."

There is a slight pause as she takes another puff of smoke. You take that opportunity to dig into the candy bag between you two, stuffing some of them in your pockets. If she noticed, she pretended not to. She's looking forward but her gaze seems to be elsewhere like she was in the middle of remembering something. She was so fidgety, so breakable there, and she couldn't stop talking. It really felt like she's been rehearsing this all in her head and was just grateful someone finally asked. You're used to people like that too, carrying heavy burdens, ignored by the world, who just overflow as soon as you show interest. It's honestly a little sad but at least this time someone gave you something. You eat another candy, and the flavors mix in your mouth. Orange and lemon. It's sour.

"And he's so cool, you know?" She continues, and sighs dreamily, blowing out a stream of spicy smoke, "He told me he doesn't care about any of that. So I decided I'm going to be with him."

You blink. You look up at her. At first you thought she was an idiot, but not _this_ stupid. She looks inwards now, smiling prettily, slightly flushed. Like a bride before her wedding. She sits up, tilting her head to the side playfully.

"We've got it all planned out." She admits to you, smiling, "Well, okay, it was mostly his idea. But I brought everything we need. I left today. I'm gonna... _we're_ going to be together."

She tells this last bit without the previous misgivings, like she was regaling a romantic story. She probably felt a little proud to be the star of it, shy in the spotlight, but sparkling. But looking at her, you couldn't think how stupid it all sounded. None of it made sense to you. Leaving all that money for one person? Following _his_ orders? You have the advantage of experience here. You try to piece together the picture of this suitor based off of the people you know here. And even at that age you could recognize the tells of a scam when you saw one. You could not conceive of the idea of a hyena taking on the risk of kidnapping a lovesick heiress; not if there was not some fortune tied to it anyway. You glance back down at her purse, thinking again of that hefy wallet, the dozens of documents. You look back up at her, golden eyes and golden bracelets. Cheerful smile. God, you think. What a _sucker_.

You do not tell her your suspicions though. You don't even consider warning her. Instead you pop another candy, and are amused to think that even lions could be idiots. You think of her boyfriend and wonder how long he'd been cooking up this plan, just how much work he put into it. Damn, he's persistent. You'd never pull off such a thing, you're way too impatient. You would have just run off with that purse and be done with it.

She's still smiling at you, and then she laughs, shaking her head. It was very cute of her. She reaches over, and takes a candy from the shared bag.

"You know, he's got ears just like yours, Ruggie." She says kindly, unwrapping the candy, "With the cute little dark tips."

You blush. For all your mean thoughts about her, you're disarmed by her genuine sweetness. You falter a bit, and speak without thinking.

"...Aren't you gonna miss them?"

"Miss who?"

"Your parents." _Your money_. "I mean, you'd rather be with him?"

She thinks on this. She thoughtfully chews the candy, mild compared to your animalistic crunching. There is an odd moment that takes place here. At the time, you had not realized it, but looking back on it, it is clear to you. It's like you are watching a film, and here, you place your hand on the screen in thoughtful consideration, like holding a treasure in your hands and examining it for its worth. There you two were, in between here and there. Sharing food and words. You criticize all these parts of her, and how blind she was to things you had learned long ago. But it was all a story you had assumed from your own experience. You don't know the full extent, but you assume you do because the stories don't change down here. 

The people of the slums are not weak to fanciful dreams like this. Thinking that everything could be abandoned in pursuit of flighty emotions. That love could be enough to pay the bills, relinquish the consequences, be strong enough to keep two people afloat in this world. You know that the world has its concrete rules and necessities and that sweet luxuries were in short supply here. She said he was kind to her. You wonder if that was also a part of his plan. You wonder when you started to question stuff like that.

But here you two are: a kid who thinks he knows everything, and a girl who clearly doesn't. Your teeth are starting to ache from all the chewing, and then your heart aches too. Maybe it was the candy that weakened you. Maybe you had a last bit of innocence in your heart, some lasting reserve before it gave in. But she glances at you sideways, and smiles. The edges of her eyes crinkle with the movement, and she looks so cool there, so strong.

"Maybe I will. I probably will." She confesses, grinning, "But I feel like he's the only one who really sees me."

Your harsh thoughts break. They shatter. And all you are left with, that late afternoon at that rundown bus stop, was thinking _You are too good to be hurt like this._

The moment does not shake her as much as it does you. She laughs then, fangs sharp, and taps out some more ash. She laughs a little embarrassed, like she was in on some inside joke about her. She sighs, wiping at her eyes again, still bright.

"Well, you'll understand when you're older." She assures you, a little shy when she talks like this, "You're probably too young to get stuff like that. Want some more candy? You can have the rest if you want."

Your smug superiority wears down into heartfelt pity. You are not entirely sure who it is for, however. You feel bad for her, because if she is so open with strangers it must mean some underlying anxiety. Some doubt. But if she spoke about him so lovingly, it means there was some earnest need in her heart that is being met. And then you turn the mirror on yourself; you wish you could be like that. She looked so cool saying stupid things like that, acted sweet without motive, and you envy that. You feel lesser there, next to her. You feel as if your heart is covered in scratches and dents, and her heart was as glittering as her eyes. You could look down on her all you want, you could try to reason away all her fantasies, but you realize a part of you aches to have that. You wish you could have that. You learned your lessons young, but you marvel at someone on the precipice of falling. 

You fail yourself here. Your pity just makes you hope you are wrong. Your pity just wants to preserve that, even if you know better. It is very immature of you to just want a happy ending without ulterior motives.

You never asked her name. Instead, you just took the candy, and she picked up the weight of silence. She asked you all kinds of inane questions that you cannot imagine you made interesting. How's school? Do you have a favorite subject? What's your grandmother do? You think you ended up rambling about food and recipes, of which she was admittedly amateurish at. The more she talked the more you realized she was trying to ease her nerves. You thought she said a lot of dumb things, but you stayed there. You feel like it was all you could do to help her, to be a distraction in this moment. You finished off the bag of candy, your mouth tacky sweet. She smoked through two cigarettes, snuffing out the cigarette butts with the sole of her platform sandals. They laid forgotten on the pavement. Soon enough the sun set, a dark evening setting in barely when the flash of headlights trailed from the end of the street. You both watch it with mild animal interest, not entirely invested in the moment, but also knowing an end when you saw it. You look up to her. Under the streetlights, she looked fierce like she was on a hunt. Her shoulders relax.

"Oh. That's not his. Guess it's the next one." She comments, a little disappointed. She looks down at you, smiling, "Is your grandmother on this one?"

You glance at the bus number, and then back at her. You nod dumbly. That childish feeling floods your chest again. It's not like there's anything you could do for her here, not like you could stop this. Not like it was your business either. But your heart beats with the realization that time was running out and you will never see her again. 

(Which is true, by the way. You never saw her again.)

The bus pulls to a rickety stop, heaving as it's doors open. The interior of it lights up in the dark evening, the bus driver sleepy as he watches the descending passengers. Various people from your neighborhood file through, and then your grandmother takes her turn to hobble down the steps. She's hoisted her bag onto her shoulder, her hair pulled back into a messy bun. She smiles, as she sees you, a familiar sight. But then she tenses a bit when she sees the lioness beside you. You can already predict what she must be thinking, the same things you were thinking, but that was neither here nor there. There must have been some polite words exchanged after the bus pulled away.

You remember the girl spoke up first, unnervingly polite as an outsider in the slums. She may have introduced herself, but your mind draws a blank on her name. She thanked your grandmother: Your grandson kept me company. Good kid. Something like that. You remember your grandmother smiling down at you mischievously, patting your head as she made some cute quip about how rare that is for you. You don't remember. It was good adult talk, polite and inconsequential. All you remember was your mind rushing. You wanted to do something for her. You needed to. You were convinced she was heading to some certain doom, something to crush her dreams. Hell, even if the guy was legit, it didn't mean they had an easy road before them. She was making a stupid mistake and you felt like you had to do something to help fix that. Like watching someone fuck up and feeling the prideful need to step in and help. 

You do remember your grandmother inviting her over for dinner. She always did for good people who clearly needed help. But the girl politely declined, smiling that same bride's smile.

She said she was waiting for someone. But thanks.

(Your mouth is still tacky sweet, your sandal is still broken, you are only eleven years old. But you have to do _something_.)

Your grandmother and you begin to leave after some pleasantries, taking that familiar walk back home. Your grandmother begins to prattle on about something, talking about dinner, but you can't help yourself. The hum of the streetlights fill that barren street, and you turn back. You run with your broken shoes, feel the struggle of the strap. You did not overthink it because you were young, and you were stupid. She's lighting another cigarette when you turn the corner. She's standing now, tall, her purse back on her shoulder, and she looks at you surprised. She brightens.

"Hey, Ruggie," she greets you because her heart was just that soft, "You forget something?"

She is beautiful under the streetlights. You rush forward, and hug her with boyish desperation. She stumbles a bit from all your energy, and then laughs.

Of course she laughed.

"Hey, hey what's all this?" She asks you, amused. She is so solid between your arms, stronger than you. You only come up to her waist, and she smells like nothing special. She is warm and you feel off, being this open but you know you have to act. You have to act quick. You sniffle, feeling something prick at the edges of your eyes.

"Good luck." You manage to choke out, "I hope things work out for you two."

She noticeably softens, seeing what you were saying. You knew she would, a sentimental type like that. She awkwardly puts a hand on your shoulder, another smoothing over the hair on your head. It smooths down one of your ears, and it flicks back into place softly. You must seem like an angel to her then. Just a good kid in an unfamiliar neighborhood wishing her the best. Right now, you must look like a welcome blessing in this lovelorn story, and knowing that makes you feel a little bad.

You are none of that. You are none of that, but good people don't see you for how you really are.

"You're a real good kid, aren't you? Thank you." She tells you softly, "I know they will."

She waves bye to you as you leave, as you try not to cry. You fail on the way home, and your grandmother doesn't say much. She just placed her hand on your shoulder on the way back, like keeping you steady. She respects your silence, and does not demand your explanation. The lioness' last words kept ringing in your head. She sounded so assured. So relieved. You feel bad, but you know it had to be done. It's the first and only time you regret who you are, but she had to know. 

You learned your lessons young. All of life's pains are inevitable and all kindness has its price. Here, in this world, you just had to pay for it in your own ways. She did not know that yet. For a brief moment, you wished you could have protected that but you know you can't. She will just learn like the rest of you learned. Like how you learned. Perhaps one could say your bittersweet gift to her was that harsh truth.

She wasn't kidding when she said she brought everything they needed. When you got back home, you pulled out her wallet from the bottom of your shirt, and dumped all the cash on your cartoon bedspread. She hadn't even noticed when you slipped it from her purse, when you embraced her. She was so damn trusting. You counted out those bills, watching with hungry eyes, mind racing with the idea of your reward than any of your regrets. Maybe you were saving her. Maybe if the guy's a fraud he'll send her back home when he sees she got robbed. Maybe you are damning her. If he's honest, then you've just damned these star-crossed lovers to an even crueler future.

You don't know. Not your problem anymore. You got the money, and that's all that mattered.

All you know is that you were just teaching her the same lesson you've known all this time. The lesson she almost made you forget.

Dreams don't insure anything. Kindness comes with a price. Faced with the bright-eyed hope of someone who didn't know better, your pride made you retaliate in cold sweetness. Made you set the record straight, tested purity for its strength against your honesty. For poor folk like you, you'll have to pay with what little you have. Your dignity. Your pride. Your safety. You cannot trust kindness here. A gift for your kind is always followed with intentions. It is better to depend on yourself, risk your morals rather than your spirit. You decide what you are willing to pay with, and keep your wits for soft hearts reaching for your love. You are not a good person. If you want to survive, you cannot depend on others for your happiness.

You learned your lessons young.

Why did you forget that?

* * *

That day started like a dream. 

You woke first with bright sunlight flooding the room, and then a warm hand shaking your shoulder. Your eyelids flutter awake, wincing at the light. The room is lucid warm, his sheets comfortable and guarding. You don't remember if you dreamt about anything that night. You may have dreamt about nothing. You look up, bleary-eyed, and Leona is radiant. He looks so alive there, glowing in both visage and spirit. It is rare for him to wake you up like this, an odd reversal of your usual roles. It's even rarer for him to look so awake for the morning. The specter from last night is gone; today it is just Leona. Whole and complete Leona, safe with his own ferocity. Leona, with his fierce eyes, and cocky smile, alert and cruel. He smiled down at you, like he has always smiled at you. Like he was entertained with some hidden joke, assured in his own skin and self. It is such a difference from the monster from last night, and if you didn't know better you could have convinced yourself it was all a nightmare. Just a nightmare.

But it's unlike him to wake you. That's how you know he is taking this seriously. That's how you know it's all real.

"Ruggie," He tells you, the sun shining behind him, "It's time."

In your half-awake state, the golden sun rays framing his head reminded you of a crown.

It is beautiful.

* * *

"I'm off, then!"

You already worked out the finer points of the plan with Leona a long time ago. He is not one to skimp on the details, and he made sure you knew what he wanted. He already told you the deal he struck with Azul. He reminds you even before you leave: first in line is last year's champions. Doesn't it make you excited? 

You realize on your sprint there how strangely considerate it was of him. The only people who will be caught in that stampede is Diasomnia. You would think of this fondly if he had not proven you wrong last night. You don't think about it. Just like all the other painful things you see, you only let it fuel you. You ignore the wound in pursuit of revenge. This is going to work. This has to work.

This time you will not have the privilege of hiding. You don't have a pack to hide your movements. You already got caught once, so Leona changes this part just to be safe. Too many Savanaclaw students in one area would attract too much attention, so you go solo. Instead the strategy is to hide in plain sight. The line leading up the stadium is long, and slithers like a snake. It was a big event for the school, so many people have come to watch and you blend in with the crowd. Many students have come to watch just as well, so your dorm uniform doesn't stick out on its own. You end up at the very back on purpose. The din of the crowd is loud, people chatting about the game, about the wait, bummed that they'll be the last ones in. Complaining about the space. They span in front of you, spacious and noisy, and you cannot help but grin. The potion sits heavy in your pocket, the ocean's weight on your shoulders. 

You cannot see them from here, but the announcer assures you they are there. Diasmonia leads the crowd as last year's champions. The crowd cheers when they are announced, and you laugh at the irony of it all.

"They have quite the fan base, don't they? Not that I'm complaining." You snicker to yourself, bringing out the potion. All this acclaim and fame, and all it was going to take was one hyena to overthrow them. You were late to see it, but now you relish in it. Leona's gift to you, giving you the pleasure of pulling the trigger. You take out the potion, and it glitters purple in the bright sunlight. No one pays you any heed because they're all focused to the front. You were not worried about attention anyway. You are well-trained with crowds and their weaknesses, know human nature and its blind spots. This idea of your home life sits steady in your mind as you drink the potion.

Very briefly you remember Malleus. That rainy day, those impeccable shoes. His deep voice without emotion.

_Thank you for last time. It was kind of you to bring my robe._

The potion goes down bitter. You gag. Memories of tough days flood you, your grandmother's hard glare at the bills, a stew you had to keep reheating until you guys finished it off. Her firm words if you complained. Everyone has their tough times and sometimes you two were also at the mercy of bad timing and short funds. You force it down, feeling a lump in your throat try to stop it, but you ignore it. You may have thought there was something poetic in this--the potion that grants you power reminds you of your weakest moments. But you're still thinking about Malleus. Holding out his umbrella to you. His cautious green eyes. They are brighter than Leona's.

Power floods your veins.

The world seems to sharpen and focus instantly. You had felt skittish with energy on the way here, wondering if you could pull it off. But just as soon as it hits, any anxiety is immediately silenced. It's an odd way to describe it; like your blood has been replaced with something more viscous, more electric. Your hands shake and you feel both light and heavy. Possible and certain. You strain to focus in front of you, and breathe. You feel something inward flex, your magic awakening with your call.

"Alright, run like your lives depend on it! Laugh with Me!"

You find your targets. It's so powerful, compared to how your magic usually works. Like a million puppet strings tied to your veins. You feel taught and strong, ready to snap with power.

You run.

It's surreal to watch them all move with you, mirror you perfectly. Leona had told you not to bother trying to control the entire crowd, that just the end of it is fine. And now you can see exactly what he means. People immediately begin to panic. Dust is kicked up, and screams erupt. And it's like this horrendous row of dominos; People run to escape the stampede, and then spur on those before them and so on and so on. And you watch with morbid excitement how with just a few seconds and your improved magic, the chaos you can wrout. Your body feels pushed to its limit as you run with your crowd, run ahead of your initial targets. Your heart beats with adrenaline, your legs ache against the bodies pushing against you. They are hot and scared and screaming. It's all noise and dust and unbearably suffocating. You feel pushed to a limit, but also beyond a limit. You feel like you are on the edge of drowning and for a brief moment you feel their frenzy. And you think of Malleus. You're still thinking of Malleus.

You feel like you're in reach of the sun, and just had to reach a bit further.

That's when you decide to cut connection. Something primal in you takes the control and makes you stop out of life-saving impulse. You scramble to the next part, and shove through the crowd. Elbows hit you, a hand pushes you out of the way. It's all a whirlwind. You finally manage to escape through the side, diving in between some stalls. You catch glimpses of people who had the same idea as you and scared store-owners, but just keep running. Your ear twitches as you catch the tail end of the announcer's fearful voice, trying to get people to stop. No one listens. You pant and turn to look at the stampede and watch wide-eyed. It's too late. They're screaming because of you. That chaos is because of you. Your body feels weak, and your heart struggles in your chest.

 _It's tiring like I thought,_ You think tiredly, _But if we succeed here…!_

Ink dropped in sunset yellow. Malleus' bright green eyes in the misty air. His gift to you. His thanks.

A laughter bubbles through your chest, and you erupt with viciousness. You feel so strong. Ruthless.

That afternoon he had granted you his approval and now it's so damn funny to you. He acted like he knew you. Like you should be grateful for that. And what is with people expecting the best of you? How is that like, to live so lucky where you can afford people the benefit of the doubt? You have never had that. All gifts come with a price, and all kindness has their intentions. You feel like you are teaching him a lesson. That hyena he helped is the one to do him in. Malleus had been called kind that day, congratulated for looking down on you. It's empowering to know that someone who looked down at you finally got his comeuppance. That he was wrong about you, that his flippant care had no weight on your actions, your consciousness. You feel like your revenge was sweeter for its cruelty, for its poetry. 

"Alright, will you use your magic against spectators?" You wonder aloud, "Even the Reigning King Malleus won’t use it if he had to, right!?"

Just like how his kindness had no effect on your decisions, his powerful magic will not be able to save him. It's ironic. It's ironic and invigorating to know this.

_Thank you for last time._

"Get crushed with the crowd, will you!" You cackle.

Why do people keep expecting the best of you? Placing their opinion on you before they even knew you? This is who you are. This is who you are. 

Being this person makes you feel strong. 

You hear the distant cries of students, ears perking up at a familiar sound.

"Lord Malleus-!"

And it dies down amid screams. Your heart is pounding. You're only now aware of how painful your lungs feel, trying to catch your breath. It takes a moment for you to register what you heard. After everything that's happened it's like the end of a storm.

Malleus has been taken out.

It's done.

You breathe. The air is still thick with dust, thick with cries. People rush around you, stragglers escaping the stampede. You stand there in the grassy field, chest rising and falling. The world slowly comes into view as you finally see the end. Your legs ache. Your chest is tight. And you smile.

"Finally...we did it…!"

You hear yourself speak but can scarcely believe it. You have done so much to get here, sacrificed so many things. It feels like waking up from a dream, just a big sigh of relief. Malleus is gone. You have taken him out. You do not dwell on it long. Instead your first instinct is to head to the coliseum, to tell Leona the good news. Your body has gone through so much, but you still feel light with elation. It's done. That's all that matters now; it's done.

You wonder how Leona will respond. You ignore any guilty feelings, because you have come such a long way. It's done. It's done. That is the only thought that had repeated in your head, that turbulent afternoon, over and over. That victorious cry, that you have finally reached the summit and overthrown a king. You remember Leona's pen from the night before. Ink dropped into sunset yellow, the gem's murky surface.

It's done.

It's done.

* * *

"Long live the King!"

"Long live the King!" Savanaclaw cheers with you, and the air fills with whoops and cheers. The sun is bright above you all, and exhilaration fills the air. You feel dizzy from the adrenaline rush, just happy that the end is here. All your hopes and dreams finally were coming true. You do not care for the blood on your hands, instead a youthful, starving thing in front of a meal. You watch Leona, as he receives this praise. He is smirking, assured. Finally, he looks so alive after all his deathful worry that led up to here. He is tall, strong, rotten, but finally. Finally, he is seen.

You cannot describe it more than this. Your blood-stained happiness had been so short-lived, but so moving. It was fleeting, but stunning. Like the life of a firefly.

"I feel like I've heard enough."

Your end comes in condescending waves. The first wave was Riddle and his pack of tea-drinking princes. You were not afraid of Heartslabyul. You had no reason to be. After all you had thwarted them before, and you were already fired up with your dorm mates. None of you felt fear in that moment, instead acting like big shots because your effort had finally come to fruition. Leona was not shaken so none of you were. You were all a pack like that, following the mood of your leader because you knew to trust him. Leona set the record straight when he called out Jack too. He called him a traitor. You called them all fools. The ensuing battle was more posturing than to achieve anything. Leona was proving his calculating nature, and it reminds you of when he played chess with you. Sending out the pawns first to weaken forces, morale. He watched this assured, and you shared that, but the doubt began to flood in when they began to lose. Riddle is a dorm leader for a reason. Similarly those princes you had written off before were irritatingly top in form. It's annoying; they're all fired up just because they're playing this stupid hero game. You know you look like the villain now; you already _know_ you're the villain. But you also remind yourself that your hard work brought you here, and that you wanted to be here. That none of this meant anything, because you've already won against that of which you have struggled against. 

But you didn't know then that your victory had been a hollow, meaningless thing anyway.

It's painful, like being thrown back into the waking world. Rudely awakened from a dream you did not want to leave. You had forgotten that all your wins and luxuries were always temporary things, just like when Leona showed you his unique magic that night. All the gold you have soon turns to sand in your hands. At the time he had asked you if it scared you. You should have seen it as a warning: any gift Leona gave you, he turned it into sand.

"These guys don't stand a chance against Riddle," Leona scoffed next to you, but you're persistent. You latch onto your victory with fangs and claws like a starving dog. You laugh.

"Even if you do this," you yell at your opposition, "It's already too late to help Diasomnia!"

"Who said they were too late?"

The second wave of your defeat comes to you in the form of mistaken ghosts. Diasomnia rises from your assumed victory for one last killing blow. The world will allow you nothing. You try to make sense of everything as the truth is doled out to you like an inside joke made behind your back. Of course it wasn't them in that stampede. And no one was hurt. Your final moment of triumph was just a mirage in the desert and it dissipates in front of your eyes. You roil with anger, with indignation.

Is it fair? Of course it's not fair. And someone could tell you that your win had been a terribly won thing anyway, but you're sick of it. All those hopeful and justice-minded sentiments, thrown back at you in accusation without considering your circumstances. Even if you acted the villain, you won nothing. You, again, have earned nothing. It does not matter if you're hungry. It must be your fault again. At that moment the truth stings, another of life's unfair but necessary lessons. Even if you try earnestly, you will not win. Even if you commit sins, you will not win. You remember Malleus and his condescending approval. The only time you had been looked upon favorably, and it was only when he looked down on you.

Leona is your final loss.

You are surprised when you hear the deep sigh next to you. In that wide expanse of field, with that bright, blue sky above you, it fills the air with an execution. You've heard it so many times before, but it feels surreal here.

"Ah," he says simply, "I'm done."

You blink. Bizarrely enough in that moment, you assume at first you misheard. You try to grapple for something familiar, but instead you feel numb. Weightless. Like you were stuck in a bad dream. 

"Eh?"

"I give up."

He answers you automatically, not even giving you room to recover. It takes you a moment to even believe what you are hearing. Your mind tries to handle this sudden turn, but it's like the ground has given out beneath you. You look at Leona, and then you immediately want to look away. That prideful, shining leader from before was just the calm before the storm. It's so strange to see him like this in the bright sunlight:

The monster from last night. Something has diminished from Leona's eyes, his own presence seemingly weakened.

Something in you aches, but you're not sure if it's anger or worry. 

"Wait...Leona…" You gulp, trying to form yourself, your voice, "What do you mean…"

"Idiot." He mocks you first, without its usual love. There is no hesitation in his voice to match your own uncertain tone, "There's no point in playing now. I'm gonna sit this one out."

He waves his hand, like dismissing a servant. It weighs on you, everything you did up until this point. All the things you endured from him, all the things he endured from you. All that had spurred you on was your win, the idea that you could give him that. And it's so strange, just how offended you feel when someone rejects your gift. When they ignore your effort and sacrifices. Something in you, sweet heart, gives him the benefit of the doubt. You try to believe in that person you had come to respect. Try to think he's still there.

"Malleus aside, I did what you said and injured all those players…" You point out to him, voice feeling shaky. You hate that there's an audience. You already feel like you're a joke, you didn't want to give them a show either with your pitiful self as the star. "And yet...you said you won't play. I doubt we'd even place at all now…"

Let's say this now: Leona never let you down that day.

Looking back on it now, you can see that Leona never let you down that day.

But you are used to defending a pack, less of a loner and more self-serving. You are weakened here. If anyone was let down that day it was probably Leona. You were not the shrewd hyena he thought of you as. Because in that moment, when your win was snatched away and Leona retreated from the plan, you thought of everyone back in the slums. The things you could give them, their momentary joys. You could have done so much if this plan had gone through. At least you had convinced yourself you could have. Leona sneers at you and takes even this sentiment away:

"No matter how much of the world watches, in the end it's just a students' game." he reminds you harshly, mocking you, "You guys just got delusional about that dream and I just played along."

You feel cold. He wasn't even trying anymore. You had always taken his harshness as equal play-fighting but here he is just mocking you. Assigning the blame. Pouring salt in your already stinging wounds from the defeat. Because of course a lion couldn't be the loser. No, what is at fault was a pack of starry-eyed brats, with a delusional hyena grasping at whatever scraps he could get.

It hurts. It hurts so much. But hadn't it been him who approached you that rainy day? Wasn't he the one who called you during holiday for your company? It keeps repeating in your mind, all your memories with him, all those times he has chased you. You had been so smart to ignore it, to not put any weight on it. But you betray yourself, Ruggie. Because with his sudden change, you realize it had meant more to you than you had thought.

You _liked_ when Leona chased you. A small part of you believed that he truly, actually, _wanted_ you.

He was right. He was absolutely right. This is just a student's game. And you had gotten delusional about a dream. You actually thought you had a chance, actually thought you were sacrificing something to get here. You wanted to do what he said because you thought it would lead to better things. You believed in him because you thought he was something to believe in. You thought he loved you. You thought you broke his heart. You thought Leona wanted to share the gift of his victory with you. You thought he was singling you out. You thought you actually meant something to him.

You thought it was you. You thought it could only be you.

"Why…?" You ask him, hollow and aching, "Weren't we going to overturn the world…?"

That day the only person who had disappointed you was yourself. You had convinced yourself for so long that you had the upper hand in this whole scenario. That you were in control of yourself and your feelings. You had told yourself you were not attached to a lonely prince and his desperate love. All this time you were protecting yourself and you thought your defenses were impertenable. You were untouchable. He could chase you all he wanted, but you would not give him more than you were willing. But you are a liar, Ruggie Bucchi. The ache in your chest proves this enough.

Your heart had wanted him all this time. Wanted his happiness. His potential. But mostly, you wanted him to love you.

His cruelty to you only proves to you how much he actually meant to you. And your pitiful reminder of what he promised you, your desperate clawing to get him back, only proves how much of a fool you were to think he thought otherwise.

He sighs, again, and its abrasive scrape is precursor to his killing blow. He looks away, eyebrows furrowed, and pushes his bangs past in frustration.

"...Then, let me tell you the truth." He decrees with his harsh, deep voice. He looks back up at you, and his eyes meet yours. That familiar evergreen.

"You are a hyena raised in the trashy slums," he tells you, "and I'm the loathed second prince who will never be king!"

You breathe.

"No matter what we do, the world won't be overturned!"

This is when the anger kicks in.

The cloudy gem. Your tense talks. Following the path back, you just start to run. All his signals to you, his non-confessions. What you thought you weren't charmed by, you are horrified to learn they are strong enough to break your heart. His reassurance of your safety. His words on the sunset field. Promises whispered on your bare shoulder. His attentive listening to you, of your background and your struggles. You confided in him, you hurt for him, and you thought he understood you. You gave him so much. You fool; this whole time you thought he was at mercy to you but Leona is the final blow to your struggle. You thought you could overthrow a king, but even now he sets the record straight.

A hyena raised in the trashy slums.

But Ruggie you are not a good person. When this betrayal hits you, you do not succumb to sadness. You are not like Leona, giving up as soon as the world turns against you. You have been at this moment so many times before, decried on the basis of assumptions. Thrown into the shadows. You don't struggle with your pride here.

You first feel your retaliation thrum against your own throat. It rushes forth quickly, hot and fierce like an animal lunging for its kill. You are amazingly resilient because you know this cruelty, so you survive it. You know to protect what little you have. You growl involuntarily, and with your trust broken, you lash out.

(Sadness tinges you.)

(You thought he was different.)

"Wh-what the hell!? Don’t mess with me!" You yell at him, voice cracking with emotion, "We did all this and now you’re giving up!?"

* * *

_"If anything happens to you, I'll take care of it."_

_"Maybe," he whispers to you, "Maybe I'm focusing on the wrong thing here."_

_"Because it has to be you." He tells you, in a husky whisper, "Because it can only be you."_

_"If you're in a bad mood I can't relax."_

_"Ruggie," he says to you for the first time ever, "Do you want to overturn this world with me?_

_"Tell me how your break is going." He asks gently. Your heart pounds._

_"Why?"_

_"Maybe it'll put me to sleep. Hurry up."_

_"Stay with me tonight."_

_"What are you doing, bringing up pointless things like that?"_

_"I can't stop thinking about it."_

_"You should be honored,” He tells you, “that I’m carrying you like this in the first place."_

_"...I guess we both have trouble at home."_

_"You laugh a lot, don't you? It’s not bad."_

_"Ruggie," He repeats your name, amused, "work for me."_

* * *

Savanaclaw comes quickly to your defense too. They join your stance and you are vaguely aware of it, surprised that you had allies, and empowered by the indignity of it all. But mostly, you are focused on your wounded heart, the realization of how much Leona meant to you and just how little you actually meant to him. You are entirely on the offense now, fangs bared and angry. When you are hurt you bite back. You find that you really do suit Savanaclaw, because the crowd behind you reacts the same way.

And soon you find out that Leona really is a perfect leader for you all.

When he is hurt, he bites back. He looks at you all with a terrible gaze, those lifeless dim eyes that were hungry and starving. Ravenous. He is pent up fury, and he is no one you know.

"Ah, you’re so irritating…" He growls and then his voice sounds like someone else, like something has been let loose, "Shut up, you idiots!"

The air shifts.

The moment feels like slow motion. In reality it all took place in only the span of a few seconds. First you felt the sudden change of the air, it's familiar static and pull of magic. And then you smelled it. The air kicked up speed with almost unnatural fury and it kicks around the stadium with the same energy as the stampede from before. At first you assumed it was a spell, something wind-based, but then you recognized the sand almost instantly. Instinct kicks in with fear. His reveal on the balcony.

And then Leona lunges forward and grabs you. In that moment that felt like forever, with your body bracing itself against the storm, and your horrified realization that he was fighting back, you focused most of all on his face. His eyes. Those lifeless eyes were now alight with something familiar to you, something you have seen plenty of times in the slums. They held no love. They held nothing but desperation. Like some dying animal backed into a corner and fighting with everything it had. It was the first time you feared him, a bone-deep fear that shook you to your core. Your anger dissipates. And it flashes briefly, the bracelet you had brought to him, his hand on the back of your own. At that time he had said the incantation softly, like it was a sad but necessary secret. Here he says nothing. Here, he grabs your wrist instead and it hurts. You feel something biting and dry on your skin, and your heart pounds fast, panicked and afraid.

 _What?_ He had said to you that night _Does it scare you or something?_

You should have listened to him.

Leona is strong. His entire hand encircles your bony wrist and he drags you forward like prey mid-throttle. Your legs give out, and the magic is invasive. It's all so incredibly powerful and invasive. You can feel something flooding through your veins, first icy cold and then heart-pounding hot. It's painful. Your eyes sting from the whipping winds, and then you feel something choking your throat. Dry. Like you've been in the sun too long. It begins benign, and then uncomfortable, and then rushes into unbearable. You struggle to talk. You struggle to move but his hold on you is steadfast and merciless. You can faintly hear the aghast reaction of Heartslabyul, of everyone else, but your blood is rushing through your ears and all you have the mind for is how to survive this.

Leona yells something at the crowd, at their horrified questions. You can hear him, rough and sadly amused through your panic.

"This is my unique magic, King’s Roar." He tells them, voice building strength "How ironic, isn’t it? The magic that the loathed Prince of the Savannah was born with…It turns everything I touch back into sand!"

He said this with resignation. With viciousness. You recognize that first part but not the latter. And you're stunned to see the thoughts you had that night be echoed here. You had thought it was so ironic. All the rumors you've heard of him, and this frightening power. And your previous anger, switched to fear, now just trembles into sadness. How long has he been thinking that?

How long has he been hurting?

(Look at you. Looking back on this, you want to ridicule yourself. The man is killing you, but still you're aching for him? With the leftover parts of the heart he broke?)

(But it ached. You can't deny that. You ached for him.)

You struggle again, but you can barely breathe so you fight to move. You look up at him, but he is not looking down at you.

"Leona…" You tell him, as if he didn't know what he was doing, "...it hurts…."

It's all you manage to choke out, but he won't regard you. And you heard it first. Your arm began to go numb, but you hear a faint crack. Like dried dirt beneath your feet. Your mind is blank with the fear, and so you just look, knowing deep in your bones something is wrong.

It blossoms from under his palm. And the fissures in your arm snake across your forearm, like vines.

It's numb. Like it's no longer even a part of you. Your eyes sting from the sand but you know what you see. It's like the world fell from underneath you.

"Wait…" You hear someone yell, "His magic works on humans, too!?"

You can't remember the rest. When you try to, your arm begins to ache with some phantom pain and your heart pounds with animal fear. There was probably magic. There was probably horror. But all you can pick out of that space of time was Leona's laughter.

"How do you like this, Ruggie?" he had asked you sadistically, "Does it hurt? Your mouth must be so dry that you can’t laugh like you used to!"

And the rest goes black.

* * *

In the aftermath, you can answer all your own questions.

First, you must confront yourself. Lay all the cards on the table. Let's answer the question on everyone's mind:

What does Leona Kingscholar mean to you?

Convenient is the first word that pops into your head. Has a lot of money. Has some good ideas. You can latch onto him and do what he says and have yourself a pretty nice setup. Lazy, is the second word. No good royal. Can't be bothered to do anything for himself. Always gotta make his funny little asides to you to keep you on your toes. But it's fun when you bite back. It's fun when you rile him up. You guess fun would be the third word. You like making him laugh. You like watching him throw his weight around. You admire that tenacity. That pride. He's earned your respect without even trying. You think you like that too. He's not even trying to impress you.

You struggle from here on out. At this point you have to make your call and you struggle with that. So you go down the list. Next question:

Why did you help Leona?

You wanted it for yourself, you answer. You wanted the chance to get something out of this. You don't mind putting in the work to eat, and this is no different. Yeah, you reason, it sure as hell wasn't by the book, but also you've never been on the good side of justice anyway so it wasn't much of a problem for you. So was it just for yourself? Yes, you lie, citing that from the beginning you only agreed with this to help yourself.

And Leona?

I don't know. Right place, right time.

Really?

Well...sort of. I mean he had all the plans.

So he was an ends to a means?

I mean he...he understood. If I had to follow anyone, it would be him. 

And is that it, Ruggie? Was Leona Kingscholar just an ends to a means? Conveniently there? Just someone you respected and followed, and nothing more?

You shut down as you try to answer yourself. Your mind keeps reaching back to midnight talks and embarrassed laughter and his constant attention on you. To avoid naming anything, you go down the list again. Next question:

Why didn't you hate Leona after everything he did?

Ah, you think. Finally. Something I can answer.

The reason had come to you after Jack saved you. Your memory kicks back in after Leona lost, after Riddle collared him, after Jack grabbed you back from his hold. Saved by a white wolf. Sounds like something out of a fairytale, but let's not forget you're in the middle of a nightmare. Good kid though. Can't help but feel sorta sorry after all the terrible things you thought of him.

Leona looked so different in Riddle's collar. A collar on a lion like him. You had struggled through your pain to make sense of this horrendous situation, and your arm felt both brittle and painful, but you remember focusing on that collar most of all. Your mind is blank, but only one thought filled your head.

It's all wrong.

It's so weird. The coliseum was being torn to bits, your teammates were all scattered, and you were on death's door, but all you could think was that the collar didn't look right. You almost wanted to walk right up to him and take it off, like you were adjusting an askew painting or something. It just looks odd. That's not right. 

And then, in his spotlight of shame, you heard everyone else.

"Leona-senpai… I… I aimed to join this school because I looked up to you! Where did the guy I looked up to go!?" Jack cries. You blink, eyes still dry and you wince.

_That's not right._

"I’m not one to talk, but I can’t bear to look at you right now. Go into solitary for a while and cool off." Riddle instructs him.

_No, that's not right either._

"A man like you suits a collar more than a crown. I am tired of hearing that the king of the Savannah is the lion." Lillia coldly tells him.

_No that's not…_

That's not him. 

That's not him. That's not him. That's not him. None of this is him. Some hero? Some rule-abiding student? You want him to wear a collar? Do you even know him? He's all edges and all pride and irritatingly full of himself and too haughty to be brought down by anything. Do you know how much of his bullshit I have to deal with? What do you want from him? And then it dawns on you too, that you were just like this. You wanted more for him. You wanted to give him that chance. Give him a throne. And you, on the cusp of pain and loss, realize sadly:

The throne did not suit him either.

Did you even know him? Or were you assuming you did? Apparently you thought he was good enough to break your heart, and now you're beginning to see that Leona did not let you down. You let yourself down. You wanted him to be more, tried to give him more, but you had him figured out from the start. You know guys like this. He was a lion. He has always been a lion and you have always been a hyena. 

You had thought you could be proven wrong, but you forgot you learned your lessons young. Kindness has a price of and all life's pains are inevitable. You can't fault him for any step of the way because he was just acting the way you had always assumed he would act. 

He looks so wounded now. Weakened and ferocious, an animal backed into a corner. It's not right. It's just not right.

"Given your talents, I had always lamented the fact that you could never become king, however…" Lillia continues, a sharply unamused smile gracing his face, "You now live a life full of sloth and every time you betray someone’s expectations, it is the other party that you find fault in. And you think you can become king with that attitude?"

_That's…_

You can see Leona tense up being given this talking to, but in your heart you know it's true. All of it is true. It's not your lecture but you cannot help but listen. This has always been him. Crooked and capable, strong but without ambition. Acts like the world owes him. Maybe you had just been painting him in your own colors. You thought you were the same, that you shared the same pain. But now it all comes to light. You are just a hyena raised in the trashy slums and he is just the loathed second prince who will never be king. 

You were disposable to him. That's how it is and that's how it should be, is all.

"Compared to our dignified king, Malleus, that is truly laughable. Even if you had defeated Lord Malleus, if you do not rid yourself of your rotten heart…You can never become a true king!"

Your heart feels numb, it's last remnants of love for him falling through your hands like sand. Like waking from a very good dream into a starving reality.

Leona begins to laugh.

 _Oh_ , you remember thinking. _That's not right either_.

It starts off sadly and then builds power into something sarcastic and powerless. He laughs not in disbelief but like cutting the tether on something. His fangs shined bright, like they could cut through skin and bone. It's strange, you thought, because Leona is such a serious guy that he rarely laughs like that. He grins wide, unstable with something. 

"Yeah, you’re right. It’s exactly as you say…" He laughs like at some dark joke, "I will never be king no matter how hard I work…!"

The world begins to shake.

But you know, even now, you still did not think sadness suited him. Even now you thought, well Leona is meant to be full of himself and prideful and thinking the world owes him. Everyone reacts in shock, and you watch dazed as the collar breaks.

Oh, finally. There he is.

"I’ve always been loathed ever since I was born. I had no place to call home nor did I have a future."

There he is.

"No matter how hard I worked, I will never be acknowledged."

There he is.

"This pain, this despair…There's no way you'll understand!!"

It practically explodes. Watching an overblot is nothing you can explain. It's a sight to behold as much as it is a horror. He roars and it shakes you back awake. Your blood rushes in your veins. Your arm is weak and your lungs still throb, but you grip your pen, and think finally.

That's Leona.

There you are, you righteous bastard.

* * *

Ruggie.

Let's get back to the original question:

Why didn't you hate Leona after everything he did?

You think long on the answer only because you're wondering how to word it. It's like your heart knows it, but you did not see it necessary to put it into words. But then you shrug at the thought, acting young with feigned nonchalance at having to explain your feelings on a tender matter.

Because you had him all wrong.

Because technically he never let you down.

From the beginning you had been guarded and expecting the worst from him. That day he had just proved you right. He's always known your status. That's just how it is. Wasn't it just you getting your hopes up? So you can't hate him for just being the person you had expected him to be.

Without realizing it, up until now, you've had this misconception that you meant more to him. That he looked past your status differences and took the time to actually see you. Maybe all your fearful deflection had been right: He was just killing time. You were a momentary impulse taken too far. You're more surprised to see how seriously you actually took him. Somewhere along the way you fell in love with Leona Kingscholar and he just broke your heart to set the record straight.

So you can't hate him for your own misconceptions. 

So why did you stay?

And here, you sort of smile like hearing a bad joke. You'd laugh but also that would be too embarrassing so you don't.

Because you wanted better for him. Still. Yes, even now.

His overblot showed you a side of him you have never seen before. Spilled feelings like thick ink staining a story. All his pains and sadness and struggles were laid right there in front of you. His despair eclipsed the sun and he became a monster in front of your very eyes. And you didn't know. This whole time you loved him and you didn't even know the weight he had been carrying. He's been hurting this whole time and you turned a blind eye, and you were too self-absorbed to see the scars. You can only fault yourself for one thing and that's for loving him half-heartedly. You put yourself at his mercy but did not force your kindness on him. That's fine too you think. You're a no-good hyena anyway, so it's not as if you had any kindness to give. You're both just acting your roles.

But it's your last gift to him. You finally see his pain and you know he will never look your way. But you wanted better for him. You fought your own self in that battle as much as you fought him. Leona is a pitiful lion with an intimidating roar and not much else. But you want better for him, and so you drag him out of the depths of himself, make him come back for air to pay for his crimes.

"It’s not like I’ve already forgiven you, got it…"

He looked at you sort of unsurprised when you told him this. He looks like hell. You'd tell him as much if you didn't look the same way. He regards you briefly and then looks away like he couldn't stand to look at you any longer. He's in a very vulnerable place now so he acts both over-compensating and skittish.

"Oh, really?"

What a paltry answer. He's always such a curt person. The air between you two is strained as you decide your fates.

"But, I don’t know why…I just thought that I don’t want to see you making that helpless face again."

He doesn't look at you. But it doesn't matter anymore. You smile, just a faint electric static of magic sparking in your veins.

"That haughty attitude and smug grin of yours suit you better!"

It's your last gift to him. It's your last wish for him, as you leave your first love behind.

"Laugh with Me!"

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I intend to update this weekly, with chapters coming out every Friday. I hope you look forward to them. Tell me what you think!


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